f     B6RKSLJT 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Of 
\.       CAUFOiNiA 


HAPPY  VALLEY 


On  the  Immigrant  Trail 


HAPPY  VALLEY 

A  Story  of  Oregon 


By  ANNE  SHANNON  MONROE 

Author  of  "  Making  of  a  Business  Woman  " 


The  first  farmer  was  the  first  man  and  all  historic  nobility 
rests  on  possession  and  use  oj  land.  — Emerson. 


Illustrated  by 

J.  ALLEN  ST.  JOHN 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1916 


LOAN  STACK 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg&Co. 
1916 

Published  May,  1916 


QJo  mg 

ELIZABETH  MONROE  STORY 

Whose  rare  spirit  of  happy  helpfulness 
has   made   her  as   my  very   right  hand 


424 


Get  leave  to  work 

In  this  world — 'tis  the  best  you  get  at  all; 
For  God,  in  cursing,  gives  us  better  gifts 
Than  men  in  benediction.    God  says,  "Sweat 
For  Foreheads;"  men  say,  "Crowns;"  and  so 
We  are  crowned, 

Ay,  gashed  by  some  tormenting  circle  of  steel 
Which  snaps  with  a  secret  spring.  Get  work,  get  work; 
Be  sure  'tis  better  than  what  you  work  to  get. 

— ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  At  Two  Forks i 

II  Old  Man  Clark 14 

III  Mother  Lattig 26 

IV  Big  John  Regan 36 

V  Susie  of  the  Star  Eyes 51 

VI  The  Coming  of  Bullpit 69 

VII  Pa's  Settlers 81 

VIII  Drink  Does  Its  Work 90 

IX  The  Little  Hired  Girl in 

X  Good  News 116 

XI  Bad  News 128 

XII  Bullpit's  Revenge 150 

XIII  The  Well 156 

XIV  The  Rescue 179 

XV  Blue  Ribbons 184 

BOOK  II 

XVI  Leppies,  and  Other  Things 201 

XVII  Sorrow  in  the  Valley 211 

XVIII  "Worrying   Wrong" 232 

XIX  What  Red  Tape  Does 242 

XX  Lizbeth  and  Confidences 252 

XXI  The  Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse 258 

XXII  Dark  Hours 277 

XXIII  Waiting  for  Spring 283 

XXIV  The  Old  Home  Back  East 298 

XXV  Mother  Inn 3" 

XXVI  Coyote  Butte  Ranch 315 

XXVII  The  Railroad  at  Last 324 

XXVIII  Everybody  's  Back 335 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

On  the  Immigrant  Trail Frontispiece 

Old   Man  Clark 20 

Mother  Lattig 44 

Bullpit 70 

The   Book-farmer 84 

Van  Vader 106 

Sol   Sneed 123 

Lizbeth 189 

Old  Sody 204 

Uncle  John  Regan 212 

Raz   Poole 240 

Leeda 273 

Susie  3°8 


BOOK  I 


Happy  Valley 


CHAPTER  I 

AT  TWO  FORKS 

1  AWOKE  that  morning  in  the  gray,  dusty,  little 
cattle  town  of  Two  Forks  with  the  terror  of 
life  shaking  me  like  a  palsy.  My  lips  and  tongue 
were  parchment.  A  scum  ridged  my  teeth.  My 
whole  body  was  loathsome.  I  tried  to  sink  into 
unconsciousness,  but  my  senses  were  maddeningly 
alert. 

I  turned  over  in  bed  and  fixed  my  gaze  on  the 
wallpaper.  It  was  yellowed  with  age,  blistered, 
and  cracked.  The  design,  a  sickly,  greenish  vine 
which  wriggled  its  way  around  a  brown  lattice, 
seemed  a  drunken,  staggering  thing.  I  traced  the 
design  to  where  it  began  and  ended,  began  and 
ended,  in  dizzying  reiteration.  A  cracked  blister 
moved,  a  small  brown  bug  crept  horridly  out  from 
underneath.  I  shivered  back  into  the  sleazy  bed 
ding,  and  tried  frantically  to  fix  my  eyes  on  some 
thing  less  nauseating. 

1 


Happy  Valley 


There  was  a  spidery  washstand,  and  on  it  a  bowl 
and  pitcher  of  white  enamel  badly  scaled.  Beside 
the  stand  stood  a  rusty  pail,  ready  for  whatever 
might  be  emptied  into  it.  I  shrank  more  deeply 
under  the  bedding,  and  my  eyes  went  on  another 
search  of  the  room  for  something  humanly  endura 
ble.  The  pale-green  window-shade  was  a  mass  of 
cracks  —  the  light  pitted  it  like  smallpox  —  and  be 
neath  it  a  coarse  lace  curtain  hung  in  dejected  and 
slovenly  unevenness.  I  looked  to  the  ceiling.  It 
was  stained  and  streaked  from  many  spillings  of 
water  in  the  room  above.  A  big  fat  blowfly  moved 
heavily  across. 

A  laugh  startled  me.  It  came  from  the  lobby 
outside.  I  sat  up,  wide  awake,  but  almost  instantly 
lay  down  again;  my  head  was  too  heavy.  Anger 
filled  me  —  it  was  the  Ratter's  laugh.  I  would 
know  that  laugh  in  a  thousand  —  a  mean,  tri 
umphant,  I've-got-you,  little  sneak  of  a  laugh  which 
was  a  perfect  expression  of  the  hard,  cold,  tight, 
little  wart  of  a  man  from  whom  it  emanated.  It 
was  all  his  doing  —  the  three-days  spree.  He  had 
insisted  on  a  drink.  I  hadn't  had  a  drink  for  over 
a  week.  I  had  known  that  if  I  could  only  get  away 
from  the  town  to  the  ranch  where  there  was  no 
saloon  I  could  hold  out.  He  had  insisted,  and  I  had 
been  a  fool  —  for  the  thousandth  time. 


At  Two  Forks 


There  was  a  loud  banging  on  the  door,  then  the 
Ratter's  voice :  "  Starting ! " 

"Well,  start!"  I  retorted. 

The  triumphant  laugh  was  repeated,  then, 
"Knocked  out?"  I  didn't  answer. 

He  waited  a  minute,  then  jerked  open  the  door. 
"  You've  got  a  half-hour,"  he  said  sharply,  and  went 
away.  I  smelled  frying  ham  and  boiling  coffee. 
The  odor  gagged  me.  I  drew  the  sheet  over  my  face. 

There  was  a  second  banging  on  the  door.  "  We're 
starting  at  once.  Come  now  —  or  don't!" 

"  Go  and  be  damned ! "    The  steps  moved  away. 

I  was  not  again  disturbed.  Sulky,  now,  I  lay 
inert  under  the  bedding.  I  had  defied  some  one  —  I 
felt  better.  I  had  defied  the  Ratter.  But  why 
couldn't  I  have  defied  him  three  days  earlier?  The 
old,  weary  sickness  again  filled  me.  Over  and  over 
it  had  been  the  same  story.  Go  where  I  would,  it 
would  always  be  the  same.  The  thing  had  caught 
me  first  at  Technical  College — I  was  taking  the 
course  in  civil  engineering  —  and  I  was  expelled. 
It  had  got  me  again  at  law  school;  I  was  again 
expelled.  I  began  to  study  privately  in  my  grand 
father's  office,  and  then  after  six  months  of  going 
straight  there  had  to  be  that  confounded  party  cele 
brating  my  twenty-first  birthday  with  wine  and 
toasts,  winding  up  with  a  debauch  on  my  part  which 


Happy  Valley 


had  ended  things  for  me.  My  grandfather  had 
thrown  me  bodily  out  of  his  life.  He  had  given  me 
a  ticket  to  Two  Forks,  a  scrap  of  paper  calling  for 
a  chance  at  a  drawing  in  a  land-selling  scheme,  and 
one  hundred  dollars  in  cash. 

The  old  Judge's  lip  had  trembled  when  he  hurled 
these  things  at  me,  and  his  face  had  purpled.  He 
had  been  proud  of  me.  I  was  his  only  grandson. 
He  didn't  think  so  much  of  his  granddaughters,  my 
sisters.  I  was  named  for  him,  as  had  been  my 
father.  My  father  had  been  the  first  keen  disap 
pointment  of  his  life;  drink  had  killed  him  before 
he  entered  his  forties.  Then  the  old  man  had  cen 
tered  his  hopes  in  me  —  and  I  was  going  the  same 
gait,  only  faster.  He  was  through  with  me.  He 
as  good  as  said  so  the  night  of  the  party  when  I 
made  a  fool  of  myself  before  his  guests.  He  said 
it  again  when  he  handed  me  my  transportation  to 
this  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  West. 

This  was  his  way  of  getting  rid  of  me.  He  had 
no  hope,  he  had  expressed  none.  But  he  must  get  rid 
of  me  in  a  way  to  save  his  pride.  It  was  generous 
enough.  My  grandfather  was  not  a  rich  man,  for 
he  had  had  us  all  to  bring  up  and  educate  according 
to  his  rather  expensive  standard  of  education,  and 
many  of  us  to  bury.  I  was  sorry  for  him,  for  if  I 
truly  loved  any  one  on  earth  it  was  he.  But  I  was 


At  Two  Forks 


sorrier  for  myself,  for  I  didn't  want  to  drink.  I 
wanted  to  do  anything  else  but  drink. 

Ennis  had  come  in  that  morning  when  I  was  push 
ing  my  clothes  into  a  suitcase  —  Ennis,  blue- white, 
frail  of  body,  and  big-tayed.  She  took  them  all  out 
and  repacked,  smoothly  and  properly. 

"  Billy,"  she  said,  with  a  sharpness  in  her  voice 
which  I  knew  to  be  a  disguise  of  her  real  tenderness, 
"  don't  you  feel  too  badly  about  it.  You  can't  help 
it,  really ;  it's  in  your  blood.  It's  in  all  our  blood," 
she  went  on;  and  seeing  that  I  was  startled,  "not 
the  drinking,  but  the  scars  of  it.  We  can't  help  the 
freaky  things  we  do.  It's  that  that  makes  me  so 
nervous  and  see  things  in  the  dark,  I  know  it's  that. 
And  it's  that  that  makes  Claire  so  queer ;  makes  her 
talk  so  often  of  pleasant  little  things  like  suicide  and 
going  insane;  makes  her  stay  in  bed  for  days  at  a 
time  with  hysteria." 

"Ennis,  you  don't  mean — " 

"No,  Billy,  Claire  doesn't  drink,  but  it's  the 
drink's  scars.  It's  as  if  some  one  had  taken  a  hot 
poker  when  we  were  all  little  babies  and  sort  of 
seared  our  brains  over.  There's  the  scar ;  and  some 
things  are  not  in  us  that  are  in  balanced  folks; 
they're  seared  out.  We're  all  queer." 

"Not  Grandfather,"  I  said.  I  had  worshipped 
my  grandfather  since  the  days  when  I  had  ridden 


Happy  Valley 


on  his  foot  before  the  living-room  fireplace,  and 
afterward,  leaning  against  his  knee,  had  watched 
the  fire's  reflection  on  the  brass  andirons  while  he 
told  me  wonderful  tales.  The  old  brass  andirons 
and  my  grandfather's  massive  white-crowned  head 
were  inseparably  woven  into  the  happy  memories 
of  my  childhood.  My  sisters  had  always  been  ner 
vous  and  finicky.  My  mother  had  died  early  —  my 
mother,  always  a  pale,  frightened  woman,  sitting 
behind  closed  blinds  and  looking  down  the  path  that 
led  out  of  our  yard  to  the  street,  clutching  now  and 
then  at  her  chair  arms  in  an  attitude  of  fearful  wait 
ing.  My  grandfather  was  the  one  solid  rock  of 
pride  in  my  family. 

"  No,  his  father  didn't  put  it  on  him ;  but  he  put 
it  on  the  rest  of  us.  Billy,  I  am  older  than  you,  and 
I  can  remember  a  lot  that  has  been  kept  from  you. 
He  drank  fearfully  in  his  young  days,  but  he  was 
the  kind  that  can  drink  and  continue  clear-headed.  It 
never  interfered.  But  Papa  was  very  different. 
You  don't  remember  him  so  well,  Billy.  He  was 
like  Grandma's  people;  like  you,  slender  and  deli 
cate,  all  nerves  and  temperament.  Grandpa  himself 
taught  Papa  to  drink;  Mamma  said  so.  Grandpa 
thought  it  was  the  way  to  do,  to  get  him  used  to  it 
as  he  grew  up,  then  he  would  always  drink  like  a 
gentleman.  But  he  was  of  a  different  temperament 


At  Two  Forks 7 

and  he  couldn't  stand  it,  Billy,  so  he  went  down. 
How  he  suffered!  I  can  see  him  now,  in  delirium 
tremens,  the  house  all  shut  up  tight  and  dark  to 
keep  people  from  knowing  —  Mamma  always  called 
it  being  *  sick '  —  I  can  see  him  now,  Billy.  I  would 
slip  past  into  his  room  when  no  one  was  watching 
and  watch  him  as  he  felt  his  way  round  the  room, 
moving  his  long,  thin  fingers  —  fingers  just  like 
yours,  Billy  —  over  the  walls,  trying  to  find  a  way 
out.  He  thought  he  was  bound  in  by  thousands 
of  tiny  wires,  and  if  he  could  only  get  his  finger  on 
the  right  wire  and  follow  it  to  the  end,  he  could 
get  out. 

"  It  was  tragic  —  and  it  was  true.  He  was  bound 
by  wires  that  led  back  to  his  father ;  his  own  father 
laid  those  wires  about  him.  And  now  they've  wound 
on  till  they've  caught  you.  There  is  no  way  out 
unless  we  could  follow  them  clear  back  to  the  begin 
ning.  There  isn't  any  way,  Billy,  for  he  tried  so 
hard,  and  you  are  just  like  him,  but  not  nearly  so 
strong.  Billy,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  just  one 
thing  —  don't  ever  marry.  Let's  just  die  off,  all 
that  is  left  of  us.  Don't  fasten  the  wires  about  any 
one  else." 

All  at  once  I  understood  my  sister  Ennis  as  I 
never  had  before  —  her  sharpness,  her  cynicism,  the 
unexpected  leavetaking  of  John  Hale  several  years 


8  Happy  Valley 

earlier,  and  her  life  since  then  devoted  to  "nerves" 
and  my  grandfather's  household.  The  under 
standing  brought  me  out  of  hot  anger  to  hotter 
tears.  I  sat  limp  on  the  bed  while  she  finished 
packing. 

"  I  promise,"  I  whispered,  "  but  I'll  make  good  — 
out  West." 

I  took  the  suitcase  from  her.  "  I'll  go  on  a  ranch 
and  make  good,"  I  chokingly  whispered. 

Ennis's  face,  at  last  softened  by  a  gentle  sadness 
through  which  glimmered  a  faint  ray  of  hope,  now 
came  before  me.  Someway  that  ray  of  hope  came 
strongest  through  the  chaos  of  impressions.  To  keep 
it  alive,  to  make  it  lighten  her  pinched  face  and  send 
away  all  the  shadows  —  that  had  been  the  ambition 
that  had  held  me  steadfast  on  the  four  days'  trip 
across  the  continent,  had  held  me  on  landing  at 
Ossing,  on  the  long  stage  ride  from  the  railway  sta 
tion  to  Two  Forks,  and  then  — 

It  had  all  come  from  meeting  the  Ratter,  I  told 
myself,  but  my  inner  self  told  me  that  that  was  a 
lie.  Always  I  must  meet  some  one  —  it  came  from 
the  devil  of  thirst  within  me. 

I  reached  over  to  the  old  split-bottom  chair  for 
my  coat  and  drew  out  my  wallet.  It  was  empty 
save  for  a  slip  of  paper  that  gave  me  the  title  to 
eighty  acres  of  land,  ninety  miles  south  of  Two 


At  Two  Forks 


Forks.  I  ran  my  hand  into  my  trousers  pocket  and 
brought  out  some  silver  and  two  gold  pieces  — 
eighteen  dollars  and  seventy  cents. 

Again  I  cursed  the  Ratter,  and  again  deep  inside 
I  knew  that  I  and  not  the  Ratter  was  to  blame.  I 
thought  back  over  the  past  few  days.  From  the 
railway  station  at  Ossing  we  had  motored  all  day 
and  all  night,  crossing  two  ranges  of  mountains.  At 
daylight  we  had  reached  Two  Forks,  the  gray, 
dusty,  little  cattle  town.  At  breakfast  I  met  the 
Ratter.  It  developed  that  he  was  the  man  I  had 
come  West  to  see,  a  clerk  who  would  conduct  the 
drawing  for  the  Great  Western  Improvement  Com 
pany,  from  whom  my  grandfather  in  some  idle 
moment  had  purchased  a  ticket. 

The  company,  he  was  told,  had  been  given  a  land 
grant  by  the  government  for  service  in  building  a 
wagon  road  through  the  inland  empire  of  Oregon. 
They  had  subdivided  this  land  into  tracts  ranging 
from  twenty  to  two  hundred  acres,  and  the  only 
uncertainty  with  a  ticket  holder  was  which  parcel 
he  would  draw.  The  drawing  had  taken  place  and 
I  had  been  lucky,  winning  eighty  acres.  It  had 
seemed  a  good  omen,  and  I  was  in  high  spirits, 
until  I  noticed  the  queer,  silent  smiles  of  men  who 
stood  in  little  knots  about  the  street  corners.  I 
made  inquiries.  Oh,  yes,  the  land  was  there  all 


10  Happy  Valley 

right.  Yes,  the  title  was  sound,  a  straight  patent 
from  the  government  to  the  company.  I  asked  no 
further  questions.  I  meant  to  take  a  chance  and  find 
out  what  the  smiles  meant  later.  Perhaps  they  were 
smiling  at  my  clothes.  Well,  I  smiled  at  theirs.  If 
cowboy-land  was  lazily  quiet  and  dustily  uneventful, 
it  was  at  least  true  to  fiction  in  dress.  And  then  I 
had  met  the  Ratter  again,  and  being  blue,  became  an 
easy  victim. 

Again  I  counted  my  money.  I  wondered  why 
they  had  left  me  that  much.  Of  what  use  was 
eighteen  dollars  and  seventy  cents  to  a  man  stranded 
in  a  dead  little  cattle  town  two  hundred  miles  from 
a  railroad?  It  probably  would  not  more  than  pay 
my  hotel  bill,  if  the  rumors  of  prices  out  West  were 
true.  Unable  to  stand  my  own  thoughts  any  longer, 
I  got  up  and  washed  and  dressed  and  went  out  into 
the  lobby. 

The  hotel  keeper,  old  Van  Vader,  sat  in  a  dilapi 
dated  armchair  before  a  rusty  heating  stove,  his 
head  hunched  down  between  his  shoulders,  his  long 
chin  sunk  between  the  sharp  knuckles  of  his  two 
hands,  his  long,  bleached-out,  sandy  mustache  curled 
around  his  fists  like  some  giant  beetle's  pincers.  I 
took  a  vacant  chair  opposite  him.  At  the  same 
moment  the  outside  door  was  pushed  open  and  a 
big,  blustering  man  burst  in.  A  seven-passenger 


At  Two  Forks  n 

touring  car  had  stopped  before  the  door,  and  other 
men  were  getting  out. 

"  We  want  an  extra  early  dinner  and  we  want  it 
damn  quick,  see?"  said  the  stranger,  charging 
up  to  Van  Vader,  who  had  not  changed  his  posi 
tion. 

"  Hustle,  man !  We've  got  the  price ! "  He  jan 
gled  coin  alluringly  in  his  pocket. 

Van  Vader  lifted  his  chin  just  sufficiently  to  work 
his  jaw.  "  I  guess  you've  tied  up  at  the  wrong 
stall."  His  chin  went  back  to  his  knuckles. 

The  stranger  opened  his  eyes  wide,  came  close, 
frowned,  then  whirled  and  strode  out,  damning 
the  country.  The  big  car  buzzed  on  down  the  dusty 
street. 

Van  Vader  again  lifted  his  long  chin  from  his 
knuckles.  "  Guess  you'll  be  wantin'  somethin'  to  eat, 
boy.  How'd  an  egg,  poached  tender,  set  on  your 
stummick?"  He  got  up  and  ambled  toward  the 
dining-room.  Surprised,  I  followed  him.  He  tied 
on  his  apron  and  pushing  open  a  swinging  door, 
went  into  the  kitchen  and  poached  an  egg.  He  also 
brought  me  a  cup  of  thick  black  coffee.  I  drank  it 
all,  though  it  was  as  bitter  as  only  long-standing, 
much-boiled  coffee  can  be.  Also  I  ate  the  egg.  And 
then  some  way  I  felt  better  about  the  dusty  little 
town  and  the  Ratter  and  myself  and  the  whole 


12  Happy  Valley 


world.  I  wanted  to  see  my  ranch.  I'd  make  good 
yet. 

"  I  wonder,"  I  ventured  to  old  Van,  back  in  his 
armchair  and  his  knuckles,  "if  I  could  get  a  horse 
and  overtake  the  Rat  —  Bullpit  ?  " 

"You  wantin'  to  overtake  Bullpit?"  He  lifted 
his  chin  and  spoke  lazily  in  an  altogether  casual  tone. 

"Yes,  if  you  think  I  could  manage  to  keep  the 
right  road." 

"There's  just  one  main-traveled  road  south." 

I  pulled  out  my  watch,  a  handsome  one,  my  twen 
ty-first  birthday  gift  from  my  grandfather.  I  knew 
with  what  precise  care  his  exquisite  taste  had  se 
lected  it.  But  there  was  no  other  way. 

"  I'm  short  of  cash,  but  if  I  could  leave  this  watch 
with  you  and  get  a  horse  —  " 

He  again  lifted  his  chin  from  his  knuckles,  this 
time  twisting  his  head  on  his  neck  with  a  gesture  of 
pointing.  "  Sol's  eatin'  hay  in  the  corral  out  back ; 
you'll  find  a  saddle  on  the  fence." 

I  thanked  him,  but  his  chin  had  again  sunk  be 
tween  his  knuckles,  and  already  into  his  eyes  had 
come  a  far-away  look  such  as  I  have  seen  in  the  eyes 
of  a  puma,  blinking  in  the  sun  in  a  park  cage  as  he 
dreamed  of  his  wilderness  home.  My  words  were 
wasted. 

When  I  came  around  to  the  door  with  the  horse, 


At  Two  Forks  13 

a  long-legged,  lanky  buckskin  that  had  never  seen 
currycomb  or  brush  but  had  spirit,  Van  Vader  met 
me  with  a  parcel.  "  You'll  need  grub.  Follow  the 
main  road  south.  About  twenty  miles  out  you'll 
come  to  a  well-traveled  road  leadin'  off  to  the  left; 
it  goes  to  the  Q  ranch.  Bullpit  might  stay  there 
tonight ;  otherwise  you'll  find  him  on  the  main  road 
that  leads  on  over  .Wind  Mountain  into  Happy 
Valley." 

"If  I  don't  see  him  I'll  inquire,"  I  answered 
glibly,  from  my  mount. 

He  smiled  a  queer,  slow  smile  and  turned  back 
into  the  hotel. 


CHAPTER  II 

OLD   MAN   CLARK 

FOR  a  long  time  I  rode  moodily,  seeing  nothing. 
At  last  the  country  began  to  edge  in.  Ahead 
was  a  yellow,  dusty  road  that  wound  endlessly  and 
monotonously  through  a  vast  plain  of  yellowish- 
gray  sagebrush.  I  looked  back ;  already  Two  Forks 
was  out  of  sight.  There  was  nothing  on  the  land 
scape  except  an  undulating  grayness  that  billowed 
interminably  to  far-away,  purple  mountain  ranges 
which  were  pierced  here  and  there  by  snowy  peaks. 
For  hours  there  came  no  change,  nothing  to  show 
that  I  approached  the  place  for  which  I  had  started. 
The  hills  before  me  seemed  no  nearer,  those  back 
of  me  did  not  recede.  I  might  have  been  on  a  tread 
mill.  At  long  intervals  I  passed  deserted  cabins 
built  of  upright  boards,  surrounded  by  a  small  clear 
ing.  A  dead  jack  rabbit  lay  here  and  there,  and 
occasionally  a  live  one  scampered  through  the  brush. 
Every  few  paces  meadow  larks  would  fly  up  from 
the  brush,  spilling  liquid  notes  on  the  still  air  in  a 
perfect  abandon  to  joy.  "  It  is  spring,  it  is  spring,'' 
they  seemed  caroling. 

14 


Old  Man  Clark 15 

My  brain  began  to  lose  its  mugginess.  I  liked  the 
air — there  was  a  tang  in  it.  The  sky  was  clear  of 
clouds,  blue,  and  very  high.  A  golden  light  lay 
shimmering  like  a  live  thing  over  the  desert.  I  got 
into  a  swaying,  rhythmic,  sing-song  motion  with  the 
country.  The  shimmer  of  the  air,  the  forever  undu 
lating  plains,  the  mystic,  retreating  hills,  my  horse 
loping  steadily  with  long,  easy  gait  —  everything 
seemed  moving  in  perfect  rhythm.  The  earth  was 
loping  along  too,  and  the  sky  and  all  of  us,  loping 
along  through  space  together.  Once  I  reined  in 
my  horse  to  listen.  There  was  not  a  sound  in  the 
whole  universe,  not  another  human  being. 

It  was  well  after  sunset  before  I  thought  of  eating 
and  then  I  found  that  I  was  hungry.  I  saw  a  cabin 
and  decided  to  stop  for  the  night.  There  was  no 
sign  of  life.  I  got  down  and  knocked  loudly.  There 
was  no  answer.  I  opened  the  door  and  stepped  in 
—  the  cabin  was  empty.  There  was  a  bunk  against 
the  wall  in  which  was  some  very  old  hay.  On  a 
small,  rudely  constructed  table  was  a  candle,  and  on 
a  shelf  were  some  empty  cans  and  dust.  Dust  every 
where.  A  yellowed  scrap  of  paper  tacked  to  the 
wall  above  a  small  mirror  performed  hospitality's 
rites : 

"Welcum  stranger  drink  lite  etc  harty  sleep 
sound." 


16  Happy  Valley 

I  whistled  as  I  accepted  my  host's  invitation,  and 
went  out  to  unsaddle  and  hobble  Sol.  At  the  rear 
of  the  house  the  ground  was  marshy,  and  over  the 
moist  earth  was  a  white  crust.  I  went  on  and  dis 
covered  a  spring.  Water  poured  ceaselessly  from 
many  tiny  fountains.  It  had  a  slick,  sweetish  taste, 
suggesting  soda  and  borax.  I  led  Sol  over  for  a 
drink.  He  put  down  his  head  thirstily,  blew  in  the 
water,  took  a  few  tasting  sips,  and  then  tossed  his 
head  defiantly.  He  elected  to  thirst.  I  staked  him 
near  that  he  might  change  his  mind  if  so  inclined, 
then  returned  to  the  cabin  and  started  a  fire.  I 
opened  my  lunch.  There  was  bread  and  butter, 
bacon,  and  coffee.  Soon  the  bacon  was  sizzling,  and 
the  coffee  boiling  in  one  of  the  tomato  cans.  I  ate 
ravenously. 

The  next  morning  I  got  an  early  start.  Though 
stiff  and  sore  I  was  in  good  spirits.  I  would  find 
my  man,  I  would  locate  my  ranch,  I  would  build  a 
cabin  and  make  good.  Somehow,  I  would  make 
good. 

In  a  couple  of  hours  I  reached  Wind  Mountain. 
I  decided  to  climb  to  the  top  and  if  I  did  not  see 
my  party,  go  back  to  the  Q  Ranch.  I  rode  on.  From 
the  top  of  the  mountain  I  looked  on  to  another  vast 
valley  that  swept  off  to  far  low-lying  hills.  This 
valley  was  walled  to.  the  right  with  rocky  ridges 


Old  Man  Clark  17 

from  which  extended  long,  low,  finger-like  buttes. 
It  had  more  individuality  than  the  other  valley.  A 
few  miles  off  I  made  out  a  rig  of  some  kind  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  very  likely  Bullpit.  I  rode  on  down 
the  mountain,  urging  my  horse  to  make  the  best 
speed  possible  down  the  steep,  rutty  incline.  Now 
that  I  was  actually  nearing  my  ranch  I  was  pos 
sessed  by  an  impatient  eagerness  to  see  it.  In  an 
hour  I  came  up  with  the  party. 

The  Ratter  sat  crouched  down  on  the  front  seat 
of  the  hack,  his  hands  lazily  holding  the  lines.  The 
four  men  with  him  had  each  settled  back  within 
himself  in  an  angry  sort  of  silence,  a  very  different 
sort  from  the  singing  silence  which  filled  the  desert. 

As  I  rode  alongside,  Bullpit  drew  up.  An  amused 
smile  twisted  his  lips.  "  So,"  he  greeted  me.  The 
others  stared  moodily  and  made  no  sign.  They  did 
not  look  happy.  I  laid  it  to  the  dust  which  filled  the 
hack,  the  wind  blowing  it  in  their  faces. 

"Can  you  locate  me?"  I  asked,  determined  to 
keep  my  temper  with  the  Ratter. 

He  looked  around  at  his  men.  "Can  I  locate 
him? "  He  seemed  to  think  it  a  great  joke. 

"  Locate  hell ! "  The  voice  exploded  from  a  linen 
ulster. 

The  Ratter  laughed.  Oh,  he  had  had  an  amusing 
trip,  the  Ratter !  He  asked  for  the  slip  I  had  got 


18  Happy  Valley 

in  the  drawing,  and  consulted  a  blue  print.  "In 
luck,"  he  announced  to  the  others,  who  remained 
wrapped  in  dust  and  anger.  "Not  more'n  two 
miles  from  here.  It  won't  put  us  back  much.  We 
can't  more  than  make  the  Q  Ranch  tonight,  any 
way."  Presently  he  turned  the  horses  out  of  the 
road  into  the  sagebrush,  through  which  they  crushed 
their  way  as  easily  as  through  a  way  of  straws.  He 
drove  on  until  he  came  up  against  the  rim  rock  that 
walled  that  side  of  the  valley,  then  got  out  and 
began  looking  for  a  corner.  I  got  down  and  helped. 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  announced.  "  You  sure  picked  a 
winner  —  begins  here  and  covers  eighty  acres  of  as 
good  rim  rock  as  there  is  in  the  country."  He  went 
off  into  a  spasm  of  laughter. 

I  stood  looking  at  him,  every  fibre  of  my  being 
tingling  with  rage.  I  wanted  to  spring  on  him,  seize 
his  thin,  working  little  throat  and  choke  him  to 
death.  A  querulous  voice  called,  "  Come  on,  come 
on,  we've  wasted  time  enough  on  this  damn 
country." 

The  Ratter  shrugged.  "  I  didn't  make  the  coun 
try."  He  seemed  washing  his  hands  of  the  whole 
matter.  "I  didn't  sell  you  your  tickets."  He  re 
turned  to  his  rig.  I  heard  him  chuckle  as  he  guided 
the  horses  back  through  the  crunching  sage  to  the 
main  road. 


Old  Man  Clark  19 

I  sat  down  on  a  boulder  and  watched  the  dust  roll 
up  the  mountain  side.  Had  it  been  anyone  but  the 
Ratter !  There  was  nothing  for  which  to  return  to 
Two  Forks  —  but  I  had  old  Van  Vader's  horse  —  I 
had  left  my  watch  on  his  register  —  it  was  his  horse. 
No,  I  could  not  go  back  to  Two  Forks  —  not  yet. 
Maybe  there  was  another  way  out  of  the  country. 
Maybe  if  I  should  ride  on  south  through  the  valley 
I  would  come  to  another  town;  somewhere  there 
must  be  another  town  —  and  Vader  had  my  watch. 
It  was  a  valuable  watch,  heavily  jeweled.  It  was 
worth  many  times  the  old  buckskin  horse.  Never 
theless,  it  was  his  horse  and  saddle  —  I  decided  at 
last  to  ride  on  through  the  valley.  I  still  had  some 
lunch.  I  could  not  go  back  to  Two  Forks,  not  at 
once;  I  could  not  face  the  Ratter  with  his  mean, 
triumphant  laugh,  and  the  half -veiled  smiles  of  the 
townspeople  who  had  known  all  along. 

It  helped,  just  mounting  again  and  feeling  the 
long,  easy  lope  of  old  Sol.  I  must  have  ridden  fully 
ten  miles  down  into  the  heart  of  the  valley  when  I 
saw  a  smoke  rising  ahead  of  me,  and  soon  I  made 
out  a  team,  a  wagon,  and  men.  The  team  was  feed 
ing.  Three  men  were  moving  about  the  fire.  A 
cattle  outfit,  I  decided,  and  rode  on. 

"Hello,  stranger!  Won't  you  light?"  An  old 
man  greeted  me,  a  bronzed,  rough,  red-necked,  squat 


Old  Man  Clark  21 

old  man  with  a  heavy,  square  jaw  and  deepset  eyes 
that  twinkled  good-humoredly.  I  sprang  to  the 
ground.  They  were  cooking  dinner.  The  other  two 
looked  silently  at  me,  after  a  brief  nod.  Both  were 
young,  slender,  and  heavily  tanned. 

"  May  I  share  your  fire  ?  "    I  untied  my  lunch. 

"Better  share  our  dinner;  cooked  enough  for  a 
dozen,  Ed  has;  family  man;  used  to  cookin'  for  a 
full  house."  The  old  man  laughed  enormously  at 
his  joke.  Ed  stirred  potatoes  solemnly;  the  other 
grinned.  I  ran  my  hand  into  my  pocket  for  money, 
then  remembering  the  cross-fire  of  the  morning 
before  between  Van  Vader  and  the  man  with  "  the 
price,"  withdrew  it.  This  was  not  a  country  where 
money  could  buy  all  things  on  all  occasions. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so,"  I  said.  "I'm  not 
much  of  a  cook." 

"  New  to  these  parts  ?  "  the  old  man  asked,  then 
quickly  added,  as  though  his  question  had  been  an 
indiscretion,  "  Some  takes  to  cookin'  natural  and 
some  don't,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  My  second 
girl,  Ed  here's  wife  —  she  never  took  to  it.  Her 
mother  blames  me;  says  I  made  a  boy  of  her;  she 
can  ride  with  any  buckaroo  from  here  to  Texas, 
barrin'  none.  She's  right  there  with  the  ridin'  and 
ropin'  and  brandin'  and  wranglin',  but  when  it  comes 
to  makin'  biscuit,  oh  my ! "  He  doubled  up  in  a  con- 


22  Happy  Valley 


vulsion  of  laughter  while  the  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks.  "  But  Ed  now,"  he  twisted  his  head  toward 
Ed,  "her  man,  he  can  make  biscuit.  She  drawed 
right  when  she  drawed  Ed."  There  was  distinct 
pride  in  his  voice.  "  Ed  "  colored,  and  became  very 
busy  with  the  eats.  He  opened  a  Dutch  oven,  set 
out  a  pan  of  flaky  biscuit,  and  told  us  to  help  our 
selves.  There  were  fried  bacon  and  potatoes.  It 
seemed  to  me  the  best  food  I  ever  tasted. 

When  we  finished  eating  we  continued  to  sit 
around  the  dying  fire  in  that  comfortably  lazy  state 
of  mind  induced  by  a  hearty  meal  for  which  you  are 
a  little  bit  more  than  ready. 

I  had  noticed  the  old  man's  check  on  himself  after 
starting  to  question  me,  so  I  took  the  cue  and  asked 
no  questions;  but  I  wondered  about  them.  My 
curiosity  was  to  be  satisfied.  With  a  final  drawing 
of  his  blue  flannel  sleeve  across  his  mouth,  and  a 
thoroughly  satisfied  expression,  he  gazed  about  him. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  "  you  can  go  on  if  you  like.  The 
old  man  stops  right  here." 

The  young  men  looked  at  each  other,  then  off  at 
the  expanse  of  country  in  which  they  were  as  a  pin 
prick.  The  other  one,  whom  they  called  Jim,  spoke. 
"What's  good  enough  for  Dad's  good  enough  for 


me." 


Then  Ed :    "  Drive  in  your  stake,  Dad." 


Old  Man  Clark 23 

"  They  ain't  no  choice,  boys,"  the  old  man  went 
on.  He  dug  his  stubby  fingers  into  the  soil.  "  It's 
good  dark  loam,  and  moist  underneath  all  through 
this  valley,  I  imagine.  It'll  dry  farm  somethin' 
great.  We're  at  about  the  center,  where  a  town'd 
naturally  come.  When  a  railroad  pulls  in,  it'll  hit 
along  the  center.  I  ain't  particular,  boys,  you  choose 
first." 

"You're  the  oldest,  Dad,  you  first." 

The  old  man  drew  out  a  blue-print  map  and 
spread  it  on  the  ground,  weighting  it  down  at  the 
corners  with  stones.  The  two  young  men  seriously 
studied  it  and  then  gazed  about  them.  I  was  mys 
tified.  How  could  one  select  one  particular  little 
spot  in  that  waste  of  land?  It  looked  hopelessly 
vast  and  vague  to  me.  Ed  pulled  a  dime  from  his 
pocket  and  giving  it  a  whirl,  it  landed  on  the  blue 
print,  where  it  spun  around  and  came  to  rest.  All 
three  heads  bent.  He  lifted  the  coin  and  proclaimed 
the  section  number.  It  had  fallen,  strangely,  on  the 
section  where  we  sat.  That  decided  the  matter.  The 
old  man  went  to  the  wagon,  took  out  a  stake,  and 
drove  it  down.  "This  one's  mine,"  he  said.  The 
boys  then  tossed  up  for  the  next  choice.  It  fell  to 
Jim.  He  took  the  three  hundred  and  twenty  acres 
adjoining  the  old  man  on  the  right.  Ed,  with  the 
caution  of  a  true  Scot  —  which  I  later  found  that 


24  Happy  Valley 

he  was  —  walked  about  and  studied  the  distant 
landscape. 

"  Seems  to  me  there's  a  bunch  of  different  green 
off  toward  that  butte,"  he  said,  nodding  to  the  west. 
"  Must  be  water  there.  Fd  somehow  feel  more  sure 
with  water." 

"  That's  close  enough  neighbors  for  real  pioneer- 
in',"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  plenty  close  to  the  rail 
road —  when  it  gets  in.  Can't  be  more'n  four  or 
five  miles  at  the  most,  and  might  be  less.  Better  ride 
off  and  take  a  look  at  it.  If  a  man  wants  water, 
water  he'd  orter  have.  I  always  like  the  center  of 
the  valley,  myself;  someway  got  a  hankerin'  after 
the  center;  every  man  to  his  hankerin'." 

"If  a  fellow  should  want  to  irrigate  — "  began 
Ed. 

"But  we  was  all  going  in  for  dry  farming,"  in 
terrupted  Jim. 

"  A  fellow  might  want  to  irrigate,"  persisted  Ed. 

"  Now,  Ed,  you  just  take  Baldy  and  go  along  and 
look  at  that  land.  Jim  and  me'll  smoke  and  rest  and 
read  the  evenin'  paper  when  the  boy  brings  it 
'round."  He  chuckled  over  his  joke.  "  Tomorrow's 
time  enough  to  start  back;  never  was  a  better  day 
than  the  one  comin'." 

Ed  started  for  his  horse,  then  turned  back  to  me. 
"Won't  you  come  along?" 


Old  Man  Clark  25 

"  Yes,  go  along,"  urged  the  old  man.  "  And  what 
might  be  your  name,  son?  " 

"Brent;  Billy  Brent."  A  foolish  whim  struck 
me.  I  wanted  the  old  man  to  call  me  Billy. 

"  Take  along  the  ax  and  the  blue  print,"  he  called 
to  Ed.  "  And  Billy,  you  get  a  couple  of  stakes  from 
the  wagon." 


CHAPTER  III 

MOTHER  LATTIG 

ED  fell  slowly  into  talk,  but  by  the  time  we 
reached  the  watered  land,  he  had  told  me  all 
about  themselves.  He  and  Jim  were  the  old  man's 
sons-in-law.  The  three  had  been  working  in  lumber 
mills  in  California,  but  the  mills  had  closed  down. 
The  old  man  had  spent  most  of  his  life  pioneering. 
He  had  fought  potato  bugs  in  Texas,  prairie  dogs 
in  Kansas,  and  chinch  bugs  in  Oklahoma. 

He  had  lived  in  San  Francisco  the  past  five  years, 
where  his  two  older  daughters  had  married  and 
where  his  youngest,  Susie,  had  been  going  to  school. 
No,  he  hadn't  any  sons,  but  Susie  was  as  good  as  a 
boy  any  day.  She  was  only  sixteen,  but  she  was  a 
great  girl.  Well,  when  work  had  closed  down,  the 
old  man,  who  had  been  restive  right  along  living  in 
town,  got  the  pioneering  fever  bad,  with  the  result 
that  all  three  finally  got  it,  pooled  their  possessions, 
realized  as  much  cash  as  possible,  and  started  out 
to  find  a  place  in  which  to  pioneer.  He  and  Jim 
were  willing  enough,  for  work  was  uncertain  in  the 

26 


Mother  Lattig  27 


mills,  and  it  took  all  a  man  earned  to  live,  especially 
with  a  growing  family. 

Neither  of  the  younger  men  had  had  much  ex 
perience  except  in  heavy  timber  —  they  were  en 
gineers  by  trade.  They  had,  altogether,  about  two 
thousand  dollars  in  cash.  They  had  been  traveling 
for  over  a  month  through  Northern  California  and 
Eastern  Oregon  and  they  had  inspected  about  all 
the  government  land  there  was.  Neither  he  nor 
Jim  knew  much  about  soils,  but  Dad  did,  and  they 
were  staking  his  judgment  on  the  throw.  Dad  said 
this  soil  was  a  top-notcher  for  dry  farming. 

He  also  said  that  a  railroad  would  tap  this  great 
inland  empire  soon.  There  had  been  pieces  in  the 
papers  about  it  recently ;  in  fact,  that  was  what  had 
finally  got  them  all  started  —  the  talk  of  a  railroad. 
The  Merriman  people  had  kept  Eastern  Oregon  bot 
tled  up  for  over  a  quarter  of  a  century,  but  their 
own  interests  would  be  better  advanced  now  by 
development.  It  was  the  last  West,  and  it  contained 
fifty-six  million  acres,  a  few  million  of  which  was 
the  finest  wheat  land  in  the  whole  world,  not  barring 
Canada;  to  say  nothing  of  billions  of  feet  of  white 
pine  on  the  inland  mountain  slopes,  unknown  wealth 
in  coal,  oil,  soda,  borax,  and  God  knows  what  else. 

Nothing  had  been  developed  because  it  was  shut 
off  from  markets.  Mountains  closed  it  in  —  a  per- 


28 Happy  Valley 

feet  barricade — on  the  west,  north,  and  east.  There 
was  said  to  be  but  one  possible  pass  on  each  of  these 
sides,  and  these  were  controlled  by  the  Merriman 
people.  The  Northern  Pass,  Roaring  Canyon,  was 
a  terrific  gorge  one  hundred  miles  long  and  narrow, 
with  perpendicular  walls  of  stone,  in  many  places 
two  thousand  feet  high.  It  would  be  expensive  rail 
roading,  but  they  would  go  to  it  all  right  —  trust  the 
Merrimans.  Why,  hadn't  they  passed  surveying 
crews  and  seen  them  running  lines  with  their  very 
own  eyes  ?  A  surveyor  was  like  the  first  swallow  — 
it  meant  the  rest  was  coming. 

Besides  —  according  to  Dad  —  they  could  make  it 
without  a  railroad — for  a  while,  anyway.  It  was 
a  stock  country  and  they  could  make  it  on  stock. 
They  meant  to  raise  grain  and  start  with  a  few  pigs 
and  some  cattle.  Other  settlers  would  come  in.  All 
you  had  to  do,  Dad  said,  was  to  start  a  settler  move 
ment  and  others  would  follow.  The  whole  country 
would  be  settled  up  in  no  time.  They  had  found  it 
in  the  raw  but  for  the  big  cattle  ranches  which  aver 
aged  one  hundred  miles  apart,  and  they  would  have 
their  pick. 

"We'll  use  tents  on  the  start-off,"  he  explained; 
and  finally,  "  Married  ?  "  It  was  his  first  question. 
I  remembered  Ennis's  last  request  and  my  readily 
given  promise. 


Mother  Lattig  29 

"  No,"  I  answered,  "  and  not  going  to  be."  For 
the  first  time,  someway,  I  cared. 

He  drew  his  mouth  into  a  one-sided  smile  as 
much  as  to  say  he  understood  —  they  all  talked  that 
way — but  he  only  said,  "  Homesteadin*  would  be 
right  down  lonesome  for  a  bachelor.  Most  of  the 
deserted  homesteads  were  deserted  by  bachelors, 
Dad  says." 

We  found  an  immense  spring  gushing  from  the 
side  of  the  butte  and  forming  a  considerable  pool, 
on  top  of  which  floated  water  cress,  green  and  fresh 
and  peppery.  The  water  was  crystal  clear  and  as 
cold  as  ice.  Also  it  was  good  sweet  water.  Our 
horses  filled  up  like  camels.  So  did  we,  lying  flat  on 
our  stomachs.  The  land  lay  high  and  level  as  a 
table,  overlooking  the  whole  vast  valley.  I  wanted 
to  climb  the  butte,  which  wasn't  over  two  hundred 
feet  high,  and  see  what  lay  on  the  other  side. 

"  This  being  watered,"  Ed  said,  "  cuts  me  out  of 
getting  three  hundred  and  twenty.  I  can  take  only 
one  hundred  and  sixty,  watered.  Wish  I  could  have 
the  whole  table." 

"Isn't  there  another  government  act?" 

"  Desert ;  but  you  can't  take  land  that's  watered 
under  the  desert  act;  that's  what  it  means — youVe 
got  to  get  water  on  it." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not  all  watered,"  I  suggested.    We 


30 Happy  Valley 

rode  around  the  butte  and  Ed  suddenly  reined  in  his 
horse.  From  the  chimney  of  a  cabin  not  a  mile 
away  smoke  issued.  "So — I've  a  neighbor,"  he 
exclaimed.  "  Suppose  we  call  and  pass  the  time  o' 
day."  It  matters  who  your  neighbor  is  when  you 
have  just  one. 

We  halted  before  a  small  weather-grayed  cabin 
of  upright  boards  and  Ed  slid  to  the  ground  and 
rapped  on  the  door.  Heavy  footsteps  crossed  a 
board  floor,  the  door  was  pulled  open,  and  a  large, 
swarthy-skinned  woman  completely  filled  the  space. 
Coarse,  unbrushed  black  hair  framed  her  big  face, 
while  her  coal-black  eyes  were  set  in  rims  fiery  red 
from  crying — or  dust.  She  wore  a  green-checked 
gingham  apron  which  hung  full  from  a  belt  and 
above  it  was  a  man's  jumper  of  blue  denim.  She 
kept  one  hand  under  her  apron. 

"  Me  got  no  money,  me  got  no  money,"  she  cried 
out  in  broken  guttural  tones.  She  seemed  to  be 
Hungarian. 

"  Neither  have  we,"  Ed  answered,  seeing  she  was 
frightened.  "We're  your  new  neighbors;  three 
families  of  us  are  settling  in  your  valley;  we've 
come  to  make  a  friendly  call." 

"  Neighbors  ?  "  She  bent  closer  and  peered  into 
Ed's  face.  "You  my  neighbors?  You  come  frye 
by  me  ?  Oh !  mine  gootness  —  neighbors ! "  She 


Mother  Lattig  31 

spoke  rapidly,  and  in  her  excitement  she  drew  her 
hand  from  under  her  apron.  She  had  a  gun. 

"We  sure  are,"  Ed  answered.  "I'm  locating 
over  there  on  the  plateau."  He  pointed  proudly  to 
his  piece  of  land.  "  I'm  your  neighbor  all  right,  and 
there's  others." 

"Neighbors!  Oh!  mine  gootness — neighbors!" 
She  dropped  the  gun  and  seizing  her  apron  in  both 
hands  threw  it  to  her  face  and  began  to  sway  and 
sob.  The  gesture  displayed  two  stocky  overall- 
encased  legs.  "  Ah,  God,  neighbors ! "  came  in  thick 
gutturals.  Then  as  abruptly  she  threw  down  the 
apron  and  made  a  rush  at  Ed  and  clung  to  him, 
sobbing  and  swaying  and  hugging  him. 

I  got  down  from  my  horse.  Ed  didn't  smile.  I 
hadn't  felt  like  smiling,  even  at  the  two  stout  legs 
beneath  the  huge  apron. 

"  And  what  is  your  name  ?  Ed  McKenzie  ?  Dat 
fine;  and  yours  —  Billy  Brent?  Come  in,  Ed  Mc 
Kenzie;  come  in,  Billy  Brent.  Neighbors,  ah, 
God ! "  She  backed  into  the  room  and  shooed  out 
the  cat;  she  pushed  the  dog,  a  lazy,  white  hound, 
out  of  the  way.  We  followed  her  in. 

"Better  pick  up  your  gun,"  Ed  said.  The  sug 
gestion  served  to  take  her  mind  off  the  appearance 
of  neighbors.  With  tears  streaming  down  her  big, 
good-natured  face,  she  picked  up  the  gun,  all  the 


32 Happy  Valley 

time  backing  about,  mindful  now  of  her  overall 
exposure  to  the  rear. 

"  I  hear  you  come,"  she  explained,  now  laughing 
and  crying  together,  while  she  pushed  forward 
chairs  for  us,  "and  I  say,  ' Some  one  come  kill  me/ 
I  see  gun.  I  take  heem  down.  I  don't  cannot  shoot. 
I  turn  heem  dis  way  and  I  turn  heem  dat" —  she 
illustrated,  bending  her  huge  body  over  the  small 
pistol.  "  I  pull  on  dis  and  I  pull  on  dat.  I  press 
heem  screw.  I  jam  heem  here  and  I  jam  heem 
dere.  But  he  don't  cannot  go.  Once  I  scared  at 
sheep  man.  I  take  heem  down.  I  pull  on  some- 
dings.  He  go  off  —  queek  —  like  dat!  I  put  heem 
away  and  I  say — I  never  touch  heem  again!  And 
here  today  once  more — no,  never  again!"  She 
pushed  the  gun  viciously  back  onto  a  shelf.  A  rifle 
stood  in  the  corner. 

"  Do  you  live  here  all  alone  ?  "  I  asked.  It  didn't 
seem  possible. 

"My  boy  Tom  he  go  to  mills  for  lumber;  leave 
me  all  alone.  He  leave  plenty  grub.  He  say,  'Mud- 
der,  I  be  back  soon,  but  if  I  don't  come,  I  be  back 
pretty  soon.'  De  days  and  de  nights  come — and 
he  don't  cannot  come.  One  day  de  wind  he  blow. 
Ah,  God,  he  never  blow  before,  he  never  blow  after. 
I  open  door  queek,  and  I  shut  heem  queek !  I  can 
not  got  no  place  to  go.  I  stay  in  de  house,  and  he 


Mother  Lattig  33 


rock,  and  I  cry.  Ah,  God,  how  much  water  I  drop 
down  onto  de  ranch!  I  go  to  bed.  I  get  up.  I 
tink  mebby  my  boy  come.  Mebby  not.  I  don't 
cannot  know.  I  tink  I  die  and  when  he  come  I 
be  all  gone.  De  sheep  man  come.  He  say  my  boy 
hurt  at  mill.  He  not  bad  hurt.  He  come  pretty 
queek  now.  He  send  grub.  Dat  been  — "  She 
got  up  and,  forgetting  her  overalls,  lumbered  over 
to  the  wall  where  she  had  cut  notches  in  the  strip 
ping,  and  slowly  counted.  "  Dat  been  forty  days 
now  and  he  don't  cannot  come."  The  tears  gushed 
from  her  eyes  and  she  began  again  to  sway  and 
sob,  again  having  recourse  to  her  apron;  almost  at 
once  she  sprang  up  and  lumbered  over  to  the  door. 
She  seemed  under  the  necessity  of  acting  everything 
out. 

"I  get  up  in  de  morning,  and  I  go  to  de  door, 
and  I  bow  deep,  and  I  say,  'Good  morning,  Mr. 
Mountaing,'  and  I  wait  —  but  he  don't  cannot  an 
swer."  She  shook  her  head  sadly.  "And  I  turn  to 
de  east,  and  I  say,  '  Good  morning,  Mr.  Mountaing,' 
and  he  don't  cannot  answer;  and  I  turn  to  de  west 
and  I  say,  '  Good  morning,  Mr.  Mountaing,'  and  he 
don't  cannot  answer.  Ah,  God,  I  all  alone ! "  The 
tears  poured  down  her  swarthy  cheeks,  but  before 
either  of  us  could  speak,  she  remembered  her  hos 
pitality,  and  drawing  one  hand  after  another  over 


34  Happy  Valley 

her  eyes,  she  turned  a  bright  look  on  us.  "  What  1 
tink  ?  I  get  supper  for  my  neighbors.  Where  have 
gone  it  my  manners,  I  hope!" 

We  insisted  that  we  had  been  fed,  and  then  ex 
plained  that  we  must  get  back  to  camp.  Ed  told  her 
about  his  father-in-law. 

"And  a  woom?"  she  asked,  "old  — like  me?" 
Her  face  twitched  with  eagerness. 

"Yes,  the  best  woman  on  earth,  my  wife's 
mother.  And  there's  my  wife  and  Jim's  wife  and 
Susie.  We  will  all  be  living  here  soon." 

"You  come  pretty  queek?"  She  all  but  clung 
to  us. 

"  As  quick  as  possible." 

"You  go  Two  Forks  way?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  mebby  you  see  my  boy,  yes?  You  tell 
heem  hees  mudder  most  dead,  yes  ?  You  got  garden 
seed,  yes?  I  lika  get  some."  She  hurried  down 
the  steps,  and  swept  her  arm  about  a  cleared  patch. 
"  I  clear  all  heem  wid  my  two  hands,  yes.  I  lika 
garden  seed.  You  see  my  boy,  yes?" 

We  agreed  to  find  her  boy  and  then  remembered 
that  we  didn't  know  her  name. 

"  Lattig.    Nish  Lattig.    You  come  back  queek ! " 

She  stood  mopping  her  eyes  with  her  apron  as  we 
rode  off,  and  neither  of  us  smiled  at  the  two  stout 


Mother  Lattig  35 

kegs  of  legs  encased  in  their  overalls.  Ed  was  silent. 
As  we  neared  camp  and  the  cheerful  greeting  of  the 
old  man  came  to  us,  he  sighed  deeply.  "  I  can't  do 
it,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  take  Lil  off  to  a  place  all  alone 
like  that.  I'll  just  file  alongside  the  old  man  where 
she'll  be  close  to  her  mother." 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  do  you  mind  my  filing  on  your 
plateau?" 

"  Take  it,  and  luck."    He  held  out  his  hand. 

Some  way  I  felt  awfully  close  to  Ed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BIG  JOHN  REGAN 

I  UNSADDLED  Sol  and  turned  him  into  the 
corral,  then  went  at  once  into  the  hotel.  Van 
Vader  sat  as  I  had  left  him  four  days  earlier,  his 
long  chin  sunk  between  his  knuckles,  his  straw- 
colored,  beetle-pincer  mustache  hooping  the  whole. 

"  Mr.  Vader,"  I  said,  "  I've  returned  your  horse, 
and  I  am  going  to  ask  another  favor.  I  want  to  file 
on  a  homestead  and  I've  got  just  about  the  filing 
fee.  Will  you  continue  to  hold  my  watch  for  my 
board  bill  and  horse  hire  so  I  can  file?" 

He  dislodged  one  fist,  ran  it  into  his  pocket,  pulled 
out  my  watch  and  held  it  out  to  me.  My  heart  went 
down  —  I  wanted  that  land  with  the  spring  on  it. 
I  particularly  wanted  that  spring.  "  Awful  careless 
about  leavin'  your  things  'round,"  he  drawled. 
"  Make  yourself  at  home,  boy,  and  pay  when  you 
can." 

"But— Mr.  Vader—" 

He  continued  to  hold  out  the  watch.  "  Better  be 
gettin'  over't  the  land  office.  There's  others  has 

36 


Big  John  Regan  37 

went  down  that  way  lately  that  may  have  film' 
intentions." 

"If  I  could  get  a  job  at  something;  you  haven't 
a  clerk  —  "  I  stopped.  The  office  register  lay  open 
on  a  kitchen  table  for  anyone  to  use  who  had  the 
habit.  Van's  wife  was  chambermaid  and  waitress 
and  he  was  cook. 

"  What  can  you  do  ?    Ever  shof e  ?  " 

A  chauffeur  —  and  my  grandfather,  old  Judge 
Brent,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  lawyers  in  his  state ! 

"Regan  was  in  here  from  the  Q  Ranch  a  few 
minutes  ago  wantin'  a  shofe.  He'd  like's  not  give 
you  a  chance  if  you  are  a  good  one.  If  you  can't 
shofe  he  might  send  you  to  a  shoffin'  school.  He 
has  others." 

"  Thank  you.  I've  driven  my  own  car  since  I  was 
sixteen."  He  eyed  me  queerly,  then  resumed  his 
chin-knuckle  position  and  his  puma  gaze  into  space. 
I  instantly  regretted  my  speech.  "I  will  do  any 
thing  I  can  get  to  do,"  I  added  quickly. 

"Then  put  your  watch  in  your  pocket  and  go 
file,"  he  said,  sharply. 

When  I  returned  a  half -hour  later  with  a  docu 
ment  from  Uncle  Sam,  which  made  me  tentative 
owner  of  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  sagebrush 
land,  a  group  of  stockmen  had  formed  in  the  lobby. 
In  the  center  was  a  large,  heavy  man  with  a  massive 


38  Happy  Valley 

head  showing  shaggy,  dark  hair  beneath  a  wide, 
black  hat  which  was  pushed  back  from  his  forehead, 
and  a  broad,  beaming  face,  every  line  of  which  pro 
claimed  the  utmost  good  humor.  He  was  recount 
ing  an  experience  he  had  just  had  with  a  cattle 
trader  whom  they  all  seemed  to  know,  and  who  had 
sworn  off  drinking. 

"By  the  gushins,  John,  them's  good  cattle,"  he 
says  to  me.  "  Not  very  good,  Jim,"  I  says,  "  you've 
been  stringing  out  the  hay  on  'em.  "  By  the  gushins, 
John,"  he  says,  "  I  didn't  think  you'd  notice  that." 
With  that  he  stamped  into  the  house,  and  demanded 
of  his  wife  the  little  brown  bottle;  but  he  couldn't 
wait  for  her  to  get  it;  he  goes  and  gets  it  himself, 
and  he  pours  out  a  drink  and  drinks  it  down,  and 
he  says,  "By  the  gushins,  if  I'd  a  had  a  drink  I'd  a 
asked  John  fifty  cents  apiece  a  hundred  more  on 
them  cattle;  and  by  the  gushins,  he'd  a  paid  it 
too." 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  the  last  words.  Van 
Vader,  grinning  gleefully,  at  length  remembered  me 
and  performed  the  rites :  "  Brent,  shake  hands  with 
John  Regan.  Brent's  the  homesteader  I  was  tellin' 
you  about." 

The  man's  grip  was  firm  and  his  deep-set,  blue- 
gray  eyes  looked  penetratingly  into  mine.  Then  he 
laughed  a  funny  little  chuckle,  and  I  thought  to 


Big  John  Regan  39 

myself  he  was  certainly  the  most  good-natured  man 
on  earth.  All  at  once,  as  he  again  looked  steadily 
into  my  eyes,  I  felt  that  I  wouldn't  want  to  fail  him 
and  be  anywhere  around  when  he  found  it  out.  The 
others  filed  into  the  dining-room. 

"  Got  you  run  into  the  bunch  already,  have  they  ?  " 
he  said  in  a  low,  kindly  voice.  "  Well,  there's  noth 
ing  like  a  piece  of  land." 

"  That  job  at  shoffin',"  Van  Vader  drawled  out, 
just  barely  lifting  his  chin,  "  is  took."  I  was  disap 
pointed,  for  all  at  once  I  wanted  to  "  shofe  "  for  this 
man. 

"  Where's  your  land  ?  "  asked  Regan. 

I  handed  him  my  document. 

"  You  must  be  pretty  close  to  old  lady  Lattig." 

"There  is  one  section  between  us,  sir." 

"  You'd  like  to  go  on  your  ranch  now ;  you'd  like 
to  go  on  your  ranch  right  now,"  and  he  repeated, 
eying  me  steadily.  "  Yes,  you'd  like  to  go  on  your 
ranch  right  now." 

"I  would,  Mr.  Regan." 

"  I  thought  so.  Now,  why  can't  we  fix  it  up  first- 
rate  ?  Tom  Lattig  is  just  getting  around  from  a  bad 
fall  at  the  lumber  mill  up  in  the  mountains.  He 
won't  walk  much  for  a  spell.  The  thing  is  for  you 
to  take  his  team  and  lumber  and  supplies  and  go 
down  and  stay  with  his  mother  till  he  is  fit  for  ranch 


40  Happy  Valley 

work  again.  He  can't  pay  you  anything,  but  you'll 
have  your  board  and  your  time  for  grubbing  sage 
brush;  and  he'd  feel  safe  about  his  mother.  Yes," 
he  eyed  me  with  an  intent  steadiness  that  some  way 
fixed  responsibility  on  me,  "  he'd  feel  safe  about  his 
mother." 

"  That  would  suit  me,"  I  said,  "  except  that  I  owe 
Mr.  Vader  a  little  bill.  If  he  will  keep  my  watch  —  " 
I  pulled  it  out  again.  Van  Vader  removed  the  prop 
from  his  chin  to  wave  the  watch  away. 

Regan  chuckled.  "  Van  hasn't  got  much  use  for 
time,"  he  said  mildly.  "  No,  Van  hasn't  got  much 
use  for  time." 

I  was  still  troubled  about  it  and  I  suppose  my 
face  said  as  much.  Regan  held  out  his  hand. 
"  You're  an  asset,  Mr.  Brent.  We  need  young  men 
to  settle  up  the  country.  And  when  you're  in  debt 
you've  got  a  responsibility  most  as  good  as  a  wife. 
Just  leave  it  on  the  books.  We'll  see  Tom  Lattig 
and  get  the  thing  fixed  up." 

He  started  with  quick  decisiveness  toward  the 
door. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  I  said.  "  Perhaps 
I  can  find  him." 

"No  trouble  at  all.  Tom's  right  out  here  in 
my  car."  Tom  Lattig  was  the  stockman's  new 
chauffeur. 


Big  John  Regan  41 

I  had  never  handled  four  horses  before  and 
the  job  took  my  closest  attention.  The  leaders 
were  steady  pullers,  but  the  other  team  had  been 
driven  only  once  in  harness,  and  but  for  the  heavy 
load  of  lumber  they  would  have  played  smash 
with  the  outfit.  As  it  was  I  had  to  keep  my  eyes 
constantly  on  them.  My  wrists  ached,  and  all 
my  back  muscles  were  sore.  At  the  end  of  three 
days  I  came  in  sight  of  the  cabin.  I  had  made 
just  two  purchases,  a  choice  variety  of  garden 
seed  for  the  old  lady  Lattig  and  a  pair  of 
overalls. 

She  came  plumping  heavily  through  the  sage 
brush  to  meet  me.  I  knew  that  she  had  recognized 
the  horses,  and  had  mistaken  me  for  her  son.  I 
dreaded  the  moment  she  should  discover  her  mis 
take.  I  couldn't  hurry  the  fagged  horses,  but  she 
could  hurry.  Her  great  weight  charged  along,  car 
ried  by  mother-wings.  When  quite  close,  she 
stopped  in  the  road,  her  hands  on  her  hips  —  she 
now  wore  a  regulation  woman's  dress  with  its 
proper  skirt  —  and  waited.  When  she  recognized 
me  she  threw  her  apron  to  her  face  in  a  gesture  of 
terrible  anguish. 

"Tom's  all  right;  he's  got  a  job,"  I  called  to  her. 
"He's  sent  me  down  with  his  load." 

"  He  not  all  dead? "    The  apron  was  thrust  away 


42  Happy  Valley 


from  her  face,  as  the  deep  guttural  voice  made  the 
demand. 

"  He's  very  much  alive,  with  a  fine,  spanking  new 
job  of  driving  Mr.  Regan's  big  seven-passenger  tour 
ing  car,"  I  explained.  And  as  she  came  closer, 
"  His  leg  isn't  quite  sound  yet  for  ranch  work,  so 
I'm  to  be  your  boy  for  a  while.  Yes,  he  is  all  right 
• — on  my  honor.  He  sent  you  this."  I  reached 
down  and  handed  her  Tom's  note.  She  climbed  up 
and,  settling  comfortably  on  the  fresh-smelling  pine 
boards,  tore  open  the  envelope.  The  tears  began  to 
pour  down  her  cheeks  as  she  recognized  the  writing ; 
she  swayed  back  and  forth  in  an  agony  of  delay  as 
she  laboriously  spelled  out  each  word.  All  through 
the  reading  she  continued  to  ejaculate :  "  Ah,  God ! " 
"Ah,  my  boy!"  He  had  evidently  kept  from  his 
mother  till  now  the  seriousness  of  his  injury.  I 
drove  on  steadily  and  a  silly  lump  rose  in  my  throat. 
To  have  some  one  love  a  fellow  and  cry  about  him 
like  that! 

By  the  time  we  reached  the  cabin  the  old  lady 
was  laughing  as  heartily  as  she  had  cried,  and  tell 
ing  me  of  her  experience  with  a  badger  which  she 
had  beaten  to  death  with  a  piece  of  sagebrush.  She 
hurried  into  the  cabin  to  prepare  supper,  very  much 
excited  over  having  some  one  to  cook  for.  I  un 
hitched  the  horses,  then  threw  the  lumber  off  the 


Big  John  Regan  43 

wagon.  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  so  utterly  ex 
hausted  in  my  life  as  I  was  that  night.  The  cabin 
had  a  lean-to,  and  here  the  old  lady  stowed  me  away, 
in  Tom's  bed.  It  was  merely  a  set  of  springs, 
padded  with  quilts,  that  rested  on  four  spaghetti 
boxes,  but  a  more  welcome  bed  I  never  had. 

The  next  morning  I  was  awakened  by  my  hostess 
appearing  in  the  doorway  with  a  gun  over  her 
shoulder.  Had  she  suddenly  gone  mad  ?  Stiff  and 
sore  as  I  was,  I  sat  up  instantly. 

"You  show  me  how  to  shoot  heem,"  she  said. 
"  I  ask  my  boy,  he  laugh,  but  bimeby  when  he  come 
home,  I  shoot,  so,  and  he  don't  cannot  laugh  no 
more." 

I  took  the  rifle  and  initiated  her  into  the  intrica 
cies  of  loading,  putting  it  on  safety,  taking  it  off, 
promising  that  after  breakfast  we  would  have  a 
shooting  match.  She  was  intensely  excited  over  the 
prospect  and  hurried  away  to  the  frying  of  ham  and 
the  making  of  coffee. 

Later  I  visited  my  ranch.  It  looked  mighty  good 
to  me.  The  elevation  gave  it  a  beautiful  outlook 
over  the  great  wide  valley  and  the  spring  water  was 
the  finest  I  ever  drank.  From  the  top  of  the  butte,  a 
gradual  climb  of  about  two  hundred  feet,  the  view 
of  the  whole  country  was  superb.  And  best  of  all, 
it  was  mine,  my  own  soil,  the  first  thing  I  had  ever 


44 


Happy  Valley 


owned  that  hadn't  been  handed  me  outright  by  my 
grandfather.  I  felt  as  proud,  pacing  my  lonely 
butte,  as  any  captain  ever  felt  on  the  deck  of  his 
ship.  I  went  down  at 
last  and  walked  over 
my  plateau,  selecting  a 
site  for  the  cabin.  Nat 
urally,  it  must  be  near 
the  spring.  The  rim 
rock  should  furnish 
building  stone.  I 
wanted  to  build  solidly. 
The  homestead  cabins 
of  upright  boards 
looked  poverty-stricken 
and  perishable.  I  meant 
to  stay,  to  stay  forever 
in  this  land  where  the 
air  had  a  tang  in  it  and 
everything  was  at  its 
beginning.  The  prospect  of  homesteading  brought 
back  all  the  thrill  of  adventure  that  had  passed  out 
of  my  life  with  Diamond  Dick  literature.  I  was 
a  boy  again  under  a  tree  in  the  old  orchard,  seeing 
into  a  wonderland  of  enchantment  —  and  freedom. 
The  whole  outlook  delighted  me  —  and  Mother  Lat- 
tig  could  cook!  How  she  did  it  I  cannot  imagine, 


Mother  Lattig 


Big  John  Regan  45 

but  the  savory  soup  and  the  delicious  stew  she  had 
evolved  from  the  most  ordinary  ingredients  the 
evening  before  had  been  a  revelation  to  me. 

I  decided  to  locate  my  house  at  the  foot  of  the 
butte  —  Coyote  Butte,  Mother  Lattig  called  it,  be 
cause  the  coyotes  collected  there  nightly  to  howl  — 
then  returned  to  the  Lattig  ranch.  The  old  lady 
stood  waiting  for  me  in  the  doorway.  She  was 
broadly  beaming  now  —  she  was  not  alone,  and  she 
was  to  have  neighbors. 

Three  weeks  later  I  saw  two  white  spots  moving 
slowly  through  the  sagebrush  from  the  south  and  I 
knew  that  our  neighbors  were  coming  in.  I  called 
the  old  lady  to  the  doorway  to  see  for  herself.  She 
stood  there,  shading  her  eyes  and  gazing  hard  at  the 
white  spots ;  she  began  to  cry  and  then  to  laugh ;  I 
wondered  if  she  would  be  able  to  endure  the  joy  of 
having  a  "woom"  in  the  valley.  To  help  control 
her  overflowing  emotions  I  suggested  that  she  get 
dinner  ready  for  them.  "They  will  be  good  and 
sick  of  camp  fare,"  I  said.  "  You  cook  up  a  great 
pot  of  goulash  and  I  will  ride  out  to  meet  them  and 
extend  the  invitation." 

"  How  many  ? "  she  asked,  her  eyes  kindled  to 
two  points  of  flame. 

She  knew,  but  she  must  have  it  all  over  again. 
"  Let's  see,"  I  began,  counting  them  off  on  my  fin- 


46  Happy  Valley 

gers,  "old  man  Clark  and  his  wife  and  Ed  McKen- 
zie  and  his  wife  and  two  children  and  Jim  Urdahl 
and  his  wife  and  four  children  and  —  and  Susie." 

"That's  thirteen  — bad  luck!" 

"  We'll  change  it.  I'll  eat  with  them.  I'm  empty 
now  thinking  of  that  goulash." 

"Maybe  dey  bring  someone  else,  too.  Who's 
Susie?" 

"  Susie  is  old  man  Clark's  youngest  daughter." 

"She  not  married,  no?" 

"No." 

"Mebby  bimeby  she  marry  my  boy  Tom,  den  I 
have  whole  heaps  of  grandchildren  —  yes?" 

I  don't  know  why  I  resented  this,  but  I  was  aware 
of  feeling  resentful.  Why  did  everyone  have  to 
marry  or  talk  of  marrying?  "  Susie  is  only  a  child," 
I  said  irritably.  "  She's  just  sixteen." 

"  Child !  huh !  Pretty  queek  she  grow  up,"  and 
the  old  lady  went  in  to  start  her  cooking,  tossing 
meanwhile  an  imaginary  baby  in  her  arms. 

It  was  not  necessary  that  I  sit  down  with  our  din 
ner  party  to  change  the  luck.  The  Clarks  had, 
somewhere  in  the  wilderness  to  the  south,  picked  up 
Bullpit.  As  near  as  I  could  make  out,  the  last  load 
of  suckers  the  Ratter  had  carted  down  into  his  rim 
rock  proposition  had  left  him  with  a  disinclination 
for  further  "ratting"  of  that  order.  Nosing  a 


Big  John  Regan  47 

spring-filing  boom,  he  had  abandoned  his  party  and 
joined  the  Clarks  to  look  over  the  home-steading 
opportunities  of  Happy  Valley  with  a  view  to  lo 
cating  future  homeseekers  there.  He  had  been 
traveling  horseback  but  had  apparently  handed  his 
horse  over  to  Susie.  She  rode  gaily  into  the  Lattig 
enclosure,  slipped  to  the  ground  before  her  mount 
was  at  a  standstill,  and  dropped  the  reins  over  his 
head  in  western  fashion.  Then  she  joined  me  for 
the  walk  up  to  the  door,  where  the  old  lady,  held 
steadfast  by  her  interpretation  of  decorum,  was 
tugging  at  every  string  of  etiquette  that  held  her  in 
her  eagerness  to  greet  a  "woom." 

Susie  rode  in  the  loose,  swinging,  relaxed  man 
ner  of  one  who  has  grown  up  in  a  cattle  country; 
I  liked  her  at  once,  and  when  she  sprang  to  the 
ground  and  joined  me  instead  of  Bullpit,  I  liked  her 
still  better.  She  resembled  her  father  —  she  was 
short,  strong,  and  muscular,  and  as  straight  as  an 
arrow,  with  a  quick  energetic  walk  and  a  perfectly 
self-reliant  air.  She  was  extremely  fair,  in  spite 
of  long  exposure  to  sun  and  dust ;  she  had  that  firm, 
thick,  white  skin  that  does  not  tan  or  burn,  and  her 
hair  was  flaxen.  But  her  eyes  were  dark  blue  and 
deep  set,  the  lids  caught  down  oddly  at  the  corners, 
and  fringed  with  black  lashes.  They  twinkled  like 
stars  when  she  laughed.  Really,  she  was  a  surpris- 


48  Happy  Valley 

ingly  pretty  girl,  just  emerging  from  childhood,  and 
older  than  most  girls  of  sixteen.  I  could  see  that 
she  was  already  amusing  herself  with  Bullpit.  Her 
joining  me  had  not  indicated  a  preference  for  me  so 
much  as  a  preference  for  teasing. 

Mrs.  Clark  looked  all  her  husband  claimed  for 
her  —  "the  best  woman  on  earth"  —  motherly,  ex 
pansive,  capable,  and  wholesome;  while  the  other 
women,  the  wives  of  Ed  and  Jim,  were  younger  edi 
tions  of  their  mother,  forever  busy  with  one  or 
another  of  the  eternally  active  tow-headed  children. 
I  felt  at  once  that  there  was  a  quality  in  Susie  which 
the  rest  of  her  family  lacked.  I  couldn't  quite  place 
it.  It  might  have  been  that  she  had  had  better 
advantages,  having  been  in  a  city  school  the  past 
five  years.  This  had  modified  the  type,  no  doubt. 
Even  her  dress  had  a  distinctly  individual  air.  She 
wore  a  chic  little  blue  middy-blouse,  a  short  blue 
serge  skirt,  and  just  above  her  small  pink  ears  rested 
huge  bows  of  blue  ribbon.  She  had  nice  slim  ankles 
and  small  feet  well  shod  in  flat  school-girl  shoes  of 
tan.  I  thought  to  myself  that  even  Ennis  could  not 
object  to  Susie,  and  then  I  dismissed  the  thought. 
What  was  Ennis  to  Susie,  or  Susie  to  Ennis? 

I  did  my  best  to  treat  Bullpit  cordially,  for  I  knew 
he  was  really  not  to  blame  for  the  rim  rock  sale, 
and  neither  was  he  to  blame  for  my  recent  debauch, 


Big  John  Regan  49 

which  I  chose  to  forget  altogether.  And  at  all  events 
he  would  soon  be  going  on  to  Two  Forks. 

All  through  dinner  old  man  Clark  talked  and 
laughed  and  told  quaint  stories  on  his  family,  and 
every  time  Mother  Lattig  passed  his  way  he  would 
pat  her  broad  back,  and  say,  "  Oh,  but  she's  a  fine 
woman,  a  woman  who  can  cook  like  that !  There'll 
be  stars  in  her  crown."  And  then  he'd  have  another 
helping  of  goulash,  and  brag  about  how  much  he 
could  still  eat.  Mrs.  Clark  declared  she  would  have 
to  get  the  recipe  or  there  would  be  no  keeping  him 
at  home,  and  Susie  wanted  to  know,  prettily, 
if  she  could  come  over  sometime  and  learn 
how  to  make  all  those  interesting  Hungarian 
dishes. 

"I  would  have  graduated  in  domestic  science  if 
we  had  stayed  in  town,"  she  said,  proudly.  "  I'd  had 
two  whole  years  in  high  school." 

"And  you'll  have  your  domestic  science  yet, 
honey,"  said  her  mother  consolingly. 

"Yes,  with  the  best  teacher  on  earth,  her  ma," 
said  old  Clark  with  paternal  firmness.  The  mother 
shot  him  a  reproving  look,  and  Susie's  head  went  up 
a  trifle  more  erectly;  her  tiny,  pointed  chin  went 
into  the  air,  and  I  knew  at  once  that  her  ambition 
for  further  education  was  a  bone  of  contention  in 
the  family. 


50  Happy  Valley 

"  We'll  have  a  graded  school  here  in  no  time ;  just 
you  watch  my  smoke,"  bragged  the  old  man. 

The  next  morning  I  rode  on  to  the  group  of 
homesteads  with  the  men  and  helped  pitch  tents  and 
start  a  temporary  camp,  while  the  women  remained 
with  Mother  Lattig.  We  left  them  looking  at  the 
garden.  It  was  freshly  planted.  No  green  shoots 
were  yet  showing,  but  there  were  the  little  ridges 
of  soil  that  indicated  where  the  seed  had  gone  into 
the  ground,  and  empty  paper  bags  stuck  over  stakes 
at  the  end  of  each  row  indicated  what  had  been 
planted,  and  it  was  all  very  exciting.  Never  before 
in  its  age-long  evolution  from  rock  had  human  hand 
disturbed  this  soil. 

When  we  returned  that  evening,  I  heard  news. 
Bullpit  had  decided  to  take  up  the  land  between 
mine  and  Mother  Lattig's,  and  had  gone  on  to  Two 
Forks  to  make  his  filing. 


CHAPTER  V 

SUSIE  OF  THE  STAR  EYES 

ONE  spring  day  when  a  boy  of  nine  or  ten, 
having  played  hooky  from  school,  I  ran  off 
to  a  park  not  far  from  home  where  a  creek  bubbled 
joyously  over  gleaming  white  stones,  and  tadpoles 
were  to  be  found.  I  waded,  caught  tadpoles,  and 
finally  lay  on  the  bank  with  my  feet  dangling  in  the 
water,  and  gazed  up  at  the  yellow-green  of  the 
young  leaves.  It  was  a  world  of  golden  haze,  all 
dreams  and  sweet  unreality. 

I  remember  feeling,  when  the  sun  went  down  and 
I  knew  that  I  must  go  back  home,  that  I  had  stolen 
a  day  out  of  dreamland.  The  contrast  with  the 
world  I  must  return  to,  a  fearsome  woman-world 
where  half -hidden  phantoms  of  disaster  were  for 
ever  casting  gloomy  shadows,  brought  such  a  sense 
of  horror  and  dread  that  I  could  scarcely  force 
mysel  f  to  go  back .  The  fear  o  f  the  whipping  I  should 
receive  —  the  double  whipping,  for  I  should  catch  it 
both  at  school  and  at  home  —  was  nothing  to  the 
dread  of  that  gloomy,  trouble-haunted  household. 

The  spring  in  Happy  Valley  brought  back  to  my 

51 


52  Happy  Valley 

mind  the  long-lost  day  of  my  boyhood.  I  expe 
rienced  the  same  gloriously  unhampered  sense  of 
personal  freedom  and  timelessness ;  it  was  a  time 
less  world  in  a  dateless  eternity.  Day  after  day 
I  grubbed  sagebrush,  which,  on  the  suggestion  of 
Mother  Lattig,  I  stacked  for  winter  fuel,  and  eve 
ning  after  evening  I  returned  to  the  Lattig  cabin 
tired  to  the  point  of  exhaustion,  hungry,  smelling  of 
earth  and  sweat,  but  with  a  clean  soul-and-body 
washed  feeling.  I  was  tired  in  every  cell,  a  healthy 
animal  tired.  I  ate  ravenously  and  greedily,  hardly 
pausing  between  mouth fuls,  and  I  was  glad  to  fall 
on  to  my  bed  immediately  after  supper.  We  seemed 
far  removed  from  the  world  that  had  always  been 
such  a  trouble,  the  world  that  worried  and  sobbed 
and  prayed  and  blamed  and  cared.  Nobody  here 
worried.  Each  one  was  tremendously  busy.  It  was 
a  veritable  ant-heap  of  industry;  no  one  had  time  to 
worry;  each  one  just  worked  and  sang. 

I  went  over  to  the  Clark  settlement,  which  Susie 
had  dubbed  Tenttown,  frequently,  helping  now  and 
then  with  water  hauling,  well-digging,  fencing,  and 
excavating  for  the  dug-outs.  Mrs.  Clark  cooked  for 
the  whole  settlement,  her  married  daughters  grubbed 
sagebrush  with  their  men,  and  the  tow-headed,  sun- 
bleached  youngsters  rolled  about  happily  in  the  dust. 
Susie  filled  in  everywhere.  While  the  men  were 


Susie  of  the  Star  Eyes 53 

digging  the  well  she  drove  every  other  day  to  my 
spring  for  water.  She  handled  a  team  skillfully  and 
easily,  her  firm,  strong,  young  wrists  never  seeming 
to  weaken  under  the  strain.  Often  she  would  grub 
sagebrush  with  her  father  nearly  all  day,  and  go  for 
water  late  in  the  afternoon.  Darkness  would  fre 
quently  come  on  while  she  was  still  miles  away,  and 
to  guide  her  the  home  folks  would  start  a  sagebrush 
fire.  Night  after  night  the  young  girl,  alone  in  an 
eternity  of  space,  with  nothing  in  nature  to  fix  direc 
tions,  would  rivet  her  eyes  on  the  column  of  lurid 
smoke  and  by  it  bring  her  team  safely  in. 

She  had  her  play  times.  As  the  bunch  grass  in 
creased,  wild  horses  and  cattle  began  straying  into 
Happy  Valley.  It  was  the  greatest  sport  in  the 
world  for  her  to  rope  a  wild  pony  and  break  him  to 
the  saddle.  I  would  watch  her  as  the  pony  bucked 
her  off  a  dozen  times,  while  her  family,  looking  on, 
doubled  up  with  laughter  over  her  performance.  It 
was  the  kind  of  "play"  they  had  all  been  bred  to, 
and  Susie  was  only  going  back  to  the  sports  she 
remembered  as  a  child.  It  never  seemed  to  occur  to 
anyone  to  check  her.  It  was  a  part  of  life  as  they 
knew  life  and  accepted  it,  and  as  I  began  to  accept  it. 

I  saw  another  side  to  Susie.  She  had  her  own 
small  tent  which  stood  beside  her  father's.  One  day 
she  invited  me  in  when  entertaining  the  babies  dur- 


54  Happy  Valley 

ing  a  windstorm.  It  was  a  pathetic  little  corner  of 
girldom.  She  had  pinned  her  foolish  trinkets  on  the 
walls.  There  were  kodak  pictures.  Here  was  a 
group  of  high  school  boys  and  girls,  caps  atilt,  look 
ing  saucy ;  there  a  fishing  excursion  with  her  father ; 
and  in  many  different  attitudes,  snapshots  of  a  very 
good-looking  youth  with  a  pensive  expression,  and 
his  camera  swung  over  his  shoulder.  There  were 
dozens  of  fancy  candy  boxes,  cushions  with  high 
school  monograms,  pennants,  ball  game  souvenirs 
and  horns.  She  had,  too,  a  music  box,  a  poor,  little, 
cheap  affair  that  stuttered  through  most  of  its  reper 
toire,  and  for  which  the  babies  clamored  whenever  a 
windstorm  blew  them  indoors.  When  I  asked  for 
music,  she  rather  disgustedly  explained  that  all  the 
records  but  one  were  scratched,  the  babies  having 
used  them  for  spinning  plates  in  her  absence.  She 
didn't  think  I  would  care  for  the  one  good  one,  but 
she  would  put  it  on  if  I  said  so.  I  said  so.  It  was 
a  foolish  love  song: 

Some  one  to  love  and  cheer  you 

Sometimes  when  things  go  wrong; 
Some  one  to  snuggle  near  you, 

Some  one  to  share  your  song. 
Some  one  to  call  you  sweetheart, 

After  the  day  is  done; 
Some  one  to  kiss  you, 

Some  one  to  miss  you — 
Just  some  one. 


Susie  of  the  Star  Eyes  55 

"  Take  care  of  that  one,  Susie,"  I  said,  when  she 
ran  to  snatch  the  record  off  at  the  finish. 

She  flashed  about  on  me.  "You're  laughing 
at  it!" 

"I  never  felt  less  like  laughing  in  my  life."  I 
think,  young  and  inexperienced  as  she  was,  she  real 
ized  that  I  spoke  more  seriously  than  the  occasion 
warranted.  Sometimes  I  would  feel  suddenly  sick 
with  sadness  when  with  these  natural,  wholesome 
people.  I  don't  try  to  explain  it,  but  I  was  so  apart 
from  it  all.  Susie  didn't  say  anything  more,  but 
she  looked  about  for  a  perfectly  safe  place  to  stow 
away  the  record  out  of  reach  of  forever  prying  little 
fingers. 

They  were  working  strenuously  at  Tenttown  to 
get  in  a  garden,  for  already  it  was  evident  that  their 
problem  was  one  of  too  many  mouths  to  feed.  Fre 
quently —  more  frequently  than  they  had  counted 
on  —  one  of  the  men  had  had  to  knock  off  work  and 
go  to  Two  Forks  for  supplies.  Once  a  horse  went 
lame  and  the  supplies  were  delayed. 

When  I  went  over  to  Tenttown  for  a  visit  they 
had  been  living  on  beans  for  a  week.  They  had  run 
entirely  out  of  flour,  potatoes,  bacon,  and  prunes, 
the  main  diet  of  the  homesteader.  But  they  were 
cheerful  about  it  and  laughed  over  Mother  Clark's 
attempts  at  variety  in  beans.  They  were  cheerful  — 


56  Happy  Valley 

but  hungry.  Susie  rode  back  to  Mother  Lattig's 
with  me  and  we  borrowed  sufficient  provisions  to 
last  till  Ed  should  return.  They  were  counting  on 
a  good  summer  garden  and  a  large  root  crop  to 
help  out  the  coming  winter.  I  marveled  at  their 
cheerfulness,  for  this  ground  had  never  before 
been  broken,  and  how  did  they  know  it  would 
raise  a  garden?  Everything  was  an  experi 
ment. 

Mother  Lattig  was  deeply  concerned  over  her  gar 
den.  It  was  not  so  much  an  economic  necessity  with 
her  as  a  veritable  passion  for  making  things  grow. 
She  was  up  by  daylight  and  worked  endlessly  over 
the  tiny  spears  of  green.  She  knew  every  little  leaf 
and  all  but  named  them.  The  garden  was  almost 
the  sole  subject  of  conversation  between  us.  And 
then  one  morning  I  was  awakened  by  a  series  of 
bellows,  and  rushing  to  my  window,  I  saw  her  stand 
ing  beside  her  garden,  a  picture  of  desolation.  I 
pulled  into  my  overalls  and  ran  out  to  see  what  had 
happened. 

"The  damn  jack  rabbits!"  she  exclaimed,  and 
broke  into  a  volley  of  vituperative  abuse. 

Every  little  green  leaf  and  spear  had  been  bitten 
off  close  to  the  ground.  They  had  waited,  the 
thieves,  till  lettuce  and  onions  and  radishes  were 
worth  their  raid.  The  old  lady  continued  her  lamen- 


Susie  of  the  Star  Eyes  57 

tations,  cursing,  sobbing,  and  praying  all  in  one 
breath. 

"We  must  get  word  to  Tom  to  send  you  some 
rabbit  wire,"  I  suggested. 

She  turned  the  full  volley  of  her  outraged  feelings 
on  me :  "  Yes !  one  week  to  get  heem  word,  mit  luck ; 
mebby  he  gone  to  Portland;  mebby  to  Salt  Lake; 
mebby  to  San  Francisco ;  you  don't  cannot  tell  where 
he  go  in  beeg  car ;  then  one  week  to  get  wire  to  Two 
Forks  and  one  week  to  get  heem  down  here ;  and  all 
dese  weeks  my  leetle  garden  —  ah,  God!"  The 
throaty  gutteral  imprecation  told  her  despair. 

I  was  deeply  perplexed.  I  suggested  riding  over 
to  Tenttown  and  asking  Mr.  Clark  what  we  had 
better  do.  If  the  rabbits  had  nosed  out  our  garden, 
they  would  theirs.  It  was  a  community  problem. 
Our  old  man  had  been  cheerful  about  the  rabbits, 
pointing  to  the  wild  cabbage  that  grew,  crisp  and 
peppery,  at  the  roots  of  the  sagebrush.  Mother 
Lattig  had  used  it  for  salad  and  seasoning.  There 
were  tons  of  it  and  it  should  have  satisfied  the  rab 
bits.  I  repeated,  as  she  didn't  hear  in  her  loud  wail 
ing,  my  suggestion  to  ride  over  to  Tenttown  for 
advice. 

"  You  don't  cannot  fence  out  rabbits  mit  advice," 
she  cried,  dropping  her  apron  and  throwing  out  her 
huge  arms  with  a  gesture  of  despair  that  would  have 


58  Happy  Valley 

been  the  envy  of  a  grand  opera  star.  "We  don't 
cannot  do  nuttings !  Ah,  God,  my  leetle  garden ! " 
She  began  to  moan  and  sway  and  sob  afresh. 

"All  the  same,"  I  said,  "  I'll  ride  over  to  see  Mr. 
Clark." 

I  found  Tenttown  in  equal  if  more  restrained 
distress.  The  whole  settlement  down  to  Ed's  young 
est  boy  stood  about  a  ruined  garden.  It  was  as  if 
the  rabbits  had  held  off,  planning  a  concerted  raid. 
The  wretches  hadn't  been  satisfied  to  fill  their 
plaguey  little  bellies,  but  had  nipped  off  and  left  to 
shrivel  up  row  after  row  of  young  green  sprouts, 
every  one  of  which  had  been  watched  with  the 
closest  interest  from  its  first  brave  breaking  through 
the  virgin  soil. 

"  Well,  that  settles  it.  We've  got  to  have  rabbit 
wire,"  Jim  announced.  Jim  seldom  talked,  but  when 
he  did  it  was  to  some  purpose.  "We  had  oughta 
seen  that  from  the  start." 

"We  gotta  have  more'n  rabbit  wire;  we  gotta 
have  settlers,"  proclaimed  the  old  man,  turning 
away  from  the  scene. 

"How  will  settlers  help?"  I  asked.  Some  way 
I  resented  settlers.  I  didn't  want  the  world  to  move 
into  my  paradise. 

"  Settlin'  up  the  land  just  naturally  drives  'em 
away.  They  die  off  every  few  years  anyway,  but  in 


Susie  of  the  Star  Eyes  59 

between  they  thicken  up.  Every  female  rabbit  means 
an  increase  of  seventy  that  year.  It's  a  problem  that 
has  got  to  be  fought  with  settlers."  He  looked 
calmly  over  the  immense  sea  of  sage,  in  the  center 
of  which  we  were  as  a  few  drops.  "  Yes,  we  gotta 
have  settlers." 

"But  right  now,"  said  the  practical  Jim,  think 
ing  of  his  four  gaping  mouths  and  a  long  year 
ahead,  "  we've  got  to  have  a  garden." 

"If  it  ain't  too  late  to  plant  again,"  said  Ed, 
"we'd  better  one  of  us  go  in  for  rabbit  wire." 

"Is  it  so  expensive?"  I  asked. 

"It's  price  will  be  just  doubled  by  the  time  we 
get  it  down  here,"  Ed  informed  me.  "  And  that'll 
be  two  weeks  at  the  latest.  I  could  go  to  Two  Forks 
and  telegraph." 

"Cash  is  getting  mighty  low,"  Jim  murmured, 
and  Susie  heard. 

"  Dad,  let  me! "  she  demanded,  walking  up  to  the 
stout  old  man,  her  erect  little  head  proudly  in  the 
air. 

"  Susie,  you're  gettin'  to  be  a  plum  nuisance," 
the  old  man  remonstrated,  turning  away. 

"I  could  earn  four  a  week,  and  besides,  you 
wouldn't  have  to  feed  me.  And  the  four  would 
keep  you  and  Ma  so's  you  could  go  on  working  on 
the  ranch.  If  you  stop  and  go  to  work,  where'll  the 


60 Happy  Valley 

ranch  be  a  year  from  now  ?  We'll  just  be  fed,  that's 
all,  and  what's  the  use ! "  She  followed  him  up. 

"  Susie,  you're  more  trouble  than  all  my  money/' 
the  old  man  again  remonstrated,  and  bit  a  piece  off 
a  wild  cabbage  leaf. 

"Mr.  Brent,  don't  you  think  I'm  right?"  She 
turned  appealingly  to  me.  "A  lady  up  at  Two 
Forks  wants  someone  to  take  care  of  her  baby  and 
will  pay  four  dollars  a  week.  Oughtn't  Pa  let 
me  go  ?  " 

It  was  a  sudden  shock;  I  had  not  thought  of  Susie 
in  this  class.  I  spoke  sharply.  "  By  all  means,  no ! " 
Immediately  I  was  ashamed  of  my  words  —  but 
Susie,  a  domestic  in  another's  house! 

"  Susie's  not  a-goin',"  her  mother  said  stubbornly, 
coming  over  and  putting  her  strong,  brown,  hard, 
old  arm  about  the  girl,  crushing  in  her  clean,  white 
middy  blouse.  "I  had  Susie  for  myself  and  I'm 
a-goin'  to  keep  her  for  myself.  When  Clark  got 
this  pioneerin'  fever,  I  says,  '  You  can  set  me  down 
anywhere  so  long's  I  have  my  children  about  me.' 
That's  what  I  said  and  that's  the  terms  I  come  in  on 
—  and  Susie's  not  a-goin'!" 

"Hurrah  for  Mother  Clark,"  I  cried,  exultant 
over  the  firmness  of  her  chin. 

"  Of  course  Susie  ain't,"  said  Jim.  But  the  prob 
lem  of  finance  remained  just  where  it  was.  The 


Susie  of  the  Star  Eyes  61 

rabbit  wire  was  an  expense  not  counted  on.  The 
two  thousand  dollars  had  evidently  dwindled  more 
rapidly  than  had  been  expected,  and  to  buy  rabbit 
wire  would  leave  the  cash  so  low  as  to  make  pioneer 
ing  risky.  One  or  more  of  the  men  would  have  to 
go  away  and  get  work  in  order  to  finance  the  others. 

I  rode  home  late  that  afternoon,  Susie  going 
blithely  along  to  console  with  Mother  Lattig.  She 
was  naturally  a  merry-hearted  girl,  and  she  belonged 
to  a  family  that  met  its  problems  by  hard  work  in 
the  open,  and  when  not  at  work,  forgot  the  prob 
lems.  She  still  wore  her  perky-blue  bows  over  her 
ears,  but  the  ribbons  had  been  washed  many  times 
and  were  quite  faded.  I  thought  of  asking  Ennis 
to  send  her  some  fresh  ones,  and  then  I  forgot 
Ennis.  It  was  strange  the  way  I  felt  toward  my 
family  during  all  those  idyllic  spring  days  in  the 
great  desert  country.  I  wanted  to  shut  them  out. 
I  was  glad  that  we  had  no  regular  mail,  glad  there 
were  no  home  letters  for  me.  Ennis'  occasional  let 
ter  1  would  lay  aside,  dreading  to  open  it,  dreading 
its  tone  of  waiting  helplessness,  dreading  the  cloud 
it  invariably  threw  over  my  spirits.  I  didn't  want 
any  contact  with  life  as  I  had  known  it.  I  wanted 
only  this. 

When  we  rode  up  to  the  cabin  at  sunset  we  saw  a 
funny  sight.  A  rope  dangling  with  tin  cans,  bottles, 


62  Happy  Valley 


and  bells  was  stretched  around  the  small  garden. 
Susie  sprang  down  from  her  pony  and  ran  at  once 
to  Mother  Lattig. 

The  old  lady  had  been  resourceful.  She  flopped 
down  on  the  ground  to  demonstrate  her  idea. 

"  I  work  heem  like  dis,"  she  explained.  "  I  bring 
out  my  blankets.  I  sleep  here  mit  my  dog  Deck 
and  my  gun.  I  put  my  hand  over  de  rope  —  like 
so  —  I  stay  awake,  and  when  Mr.  Rabbit  come, 
I  shoot  heem.  And  when  I  go  to  sleep,  I  roll  so," 
she  illustrated  it  graphically,  "  and  I  set  up  de  noise 
mit  de  bells  and  cans,  and  Mr.  Rabbit,  he  white- 
livered  coward,  he  run,  like  so ! "  She  sat  suddenly 
up  and  made  a  swift  pass  of  one  grent  brown  hand 
over  the  other. 

Susie  sat  down  beside  her,  seriously  impressed. 
It  was  no  time  to  laugh.  "  I  wonder  now  if  we  can 
do  that,  too,"  she  said.  "Our  garden  is  so  much 
bigger."  She  sprang  up.  "  I'll  ride  home  quick, 
and  rig  up  a  fence  like  that  for  ours.  Mrs.  Lattig, 
you're  a  genius." 

"  A  genius  ?  What  for  is  a  genius  ?  I  don't  can 
not  know  your  languages." 

"  A  genius,"  I  said,  "  is  a  person  who  thinks  and 
acts  instead  of  waiting  for  someone  to  show  him 
how." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I'm  a  copy  cat !  "    Susie  whirled 


Susie  of  the  Star  Eyes  63 

about  on  me,  her  little  pointed  chin,  that  some  way 
wouldn't  take  on  sunburn,  up  in  the  air. 

"You're  an  angel,"  I  said,  impulsively;  and 
immediately  wished  I  had  not. 

"Then  I'll  fly  back  to  angeldom  with  the  good 
tidings,"  she  said  glibly,  though  she  blushed.  I 
helped  her  to  mount,  realizing  it  was  wholly 
unnecessary. 

The  old  lady  insisted  on  keeping  her  vigil  alone, 
so  I  went  to  bed  early,  meaning  to  wake  at  mid 
night  and  relieve  her.  But  I  did  not  wake  till  morn 
ing,  and  then  not  till  she  came  gloriously  triumphant 
to  my  door. 

"  De  rabbits  did  not  get  one  leetle  leaf ! "  she  said, 
her  deep  throaty  voice  breaking  with  exultation. 

Every  night  thereafter  she  kept  watch.  The  little 
garden  recovered,  put  out  another  installment  of 
leaves,  and  came  on  its  singing  way  up  through  the 
earth.  But  soon  the  vigil  began  to  wear  on  Mother 
Lattig.  After  grubbing  sagebrush  all  day,  she  was 
tired  out  at  night  and  she  could  not  keep  awake. 
"My  Deck,  he  can't  keep  awake  either,"  she  com 
plained,  shaking  her  head  woefully.  "It  ees  hard 
for  Deek." 

But  still  she  would  not  allow  me  to  relieve  her, 
and  I  came  to  see  that  that  garden  was  something 
very  particularly  her  own.  She  was  like  a  mother 


64  Happy  Valley 

with  a  sick  child;  she  could  not  relax  her  vigilance 
even  when  another  watched.  So  I  left  her  to  her 
charge  and  went  on  with  my  daily  grubbing  and  my 
nightly  sleeping. 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Clark  had  sent  an  order  for 
rabbit  wire.  He  had  decided  to  fence  thirty  acres. 
The  rope  fence  with  its  bangles  of  tin  cans  was 
keeping  the  rabbit  hordes  down,  but  it  was  too 
primitive  a  method  to  have  permanent  value. 

And  then  I  heard  good  news.  The  experimental 
station  of  the  State  Agricultural  College  would  sup 
ply  barley  seed  to  homesteaders  for  planting  twenty 
acres.  I  wanted  the  seed  dreadfully.  I  wanted  to 
see  what  my  soil  would  do.  And  here  I  must  con 
fess  to  a  piece  of  cowardice.  I  was  afraid  to  go 
to  Two  Forks  to  get  the  seed.  I  was  afraid  to  break 
back  into  that  world  I  had  known.  Susie  asked  me 
why  I  didn't  take  one  of  the  horses  and  ride  in. 

"  Well,  you  know  I  am  here  to  look  after  Mother 
Lattig,"  I  evaded. 

"  I  will  go  over  and  stay  with  her." 

"  That  isn't  fair  to  your  mother." 

"  Mother  would  want  me  to.    Please  go." 

But  I  decided  to  do  without  the  seed  for  the  pres 
ent  and  to  continue  grubbing.  "  It's  hardly  any  use 
planting  without  rabbit  wire,"  I  said. 

Susie  sighed.     Everything  these  days  began  and 


Susie  of  the  Star  Eyes  65 

ended  with  rabbit  wire.  Our  first  question  had  been, 
will  things  grow?  They  grew.  Next,  can  we  get 
in  enough  garden  truck  and  roots  to  see  the  people 
and  horses  through  the  coming  winter?  The  seed 
had  been  procured  and  planted,  and  everything 
had  sprouted;  and  then  there  had  to  appear  the 
rabbits ! 

I  gave  up  all  idea  of  planting  that  season,  but  I 
did  begin  to  worry  about  cash.  I  must  have  at  least 
a  tent  on  my  ground  by  September  to  comply  with 
the  government's  requirement  of  residence.  Where 
would  I  get  the  money  ? 

One  evening  in  June  I  found  old  man  Clark  work 
ing  harder  than  I  had  ever  seen  him  work  before, 
though  I  had  come  upon  him  digging  a  well,  plow 
ing,  grubbing,  and  breaking  outlaw  horses;  he  was 
trying  to  write  a  letter  that  would  meet  his  ideal  of 
just  what  such  a  letter  should  be. 

"I'm  writin'  to  the  biggest  newspaper  in  Oregon 
to  them  discontents  walkin'  the  city  streets,  tellin' 
'em  about  homesteadin'.  I  want  to  tell  'em  I'll 
locate  any  man  free  who'll  come  into  the  country 
with  a  settled  purpose  to  make  a  home ;  to  take  up 
Uncle  Sam's  dare  that  you  can't  do  it.  I  want  to 
make  it  plain  that  I'm  just  a-wantin'  the  country 
settled,  and  that  it  ain't  no  picnic,  but  pioneerin' 
right,  and  that  if  they'll  come  into  Happy  Valley, 


66  Happy  Valley 


we'll  help  'em  get  a  start  and  put  'em  on  as  good  a 
piece  of  land  as  they  is,  without  charge." 

I  sat  down  at  the  table,  where  he  had  pushed  aside 
a  fresh  baking  of  bread,  and  took  the  pen  from  him. 
Susie  leaned  on  her  elbows  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  and  I  noticed  that  her  ribbons  were  very  much 
faded.  Susie  must  have  some  new  little  perky  bows 
to  top  her  pretty  pink  ears. 

"  Well,  man,  write,"  the  old  man  prompted  impa 
tiently,  and  with  a  start  I  bent  to  the  task.  Susie 
and  her  father  watched  every  stroke  of  the  pen,  as 
they  had  every  other  task  since  coming  into  Happy 
Valley.  There  were  few  privacies  in  the  Clark 
compound. 

When  I  had  finished,  the  old  man  read  the  letter, 
and  his  eyes  lighted  up.  "  My,  but  that's  great. 
That'll  fetch  'em." 

Susie  leaned  against  her  father's  shoulder  and 
read  it  with  him.  "  Can't  he  write  good,  though?  " 
she  exclaimed,  looking  her  admiration. 

The  foolish  praise  pleased  me  —  there  was  so 
little  among  these  people  that  I  could  do  "good." 
Mother  Clark  turned  out  her  last  baking  of  bread, 
and  leaned  over  "  father's  "  shoulder.  She  sighed 
and  shook  her  head.  "It's  nice  to  be  a  scholar," 
she  said.  "  Susie,  she  always  wanted  to  be  a 
scholar" 


Susie  of  the  Star  Eyes  67 

"And  she'll  be  one  yet,"  declared  our  old  man. 
"We'll  have  a  graded  school  in  here  in  lessen'  a 
year.  Susie  shall  be  a  scholar.  You  watch  my 
smoke ! " 

Susie  was  still  gazing  at  me  with  admiration  in 
her  fair  face.  An  old  trouble  had  stirred.  She 
sighed  and  looked  away.  The  letter  was  sent  off 
with  Ed,  who  was  going  to  Two  Forks  for  the 
rabbit  wire  which  they  figured  must  be  there  by 
that  time. 

The  first  answer  the  old  man  got  from  his  public 
letter  rather  alarmed  him.  He  was  game  —  he 
wouldn't  own  up,  but  —  eight  children!  He  looked 
at  the  six  rolling  around  in  the  sagebrush,  all 
healthy  and  fat  with  monumental  appetites  —  and 
he  thought  of  eight ! 

"It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  they  didn't  get  so 
all-fired  hungry,"  he  said,  ruefully  scratching  his 
stubby-bearded  face. 

"You  goin'  to  let  'em  come,  Pa?"  Mrs.  Clark 
was  a  steadying  force  for  this  pioneer  enthusiast. 
She  was  plainly  against  it. 

"From  this  letter,  they're  already  on  the  way  — 
the  letter's  two  weeks  old.  It's  a  Dutch  name  — 
Schrieber."  I  had  the  letter  now. 

"If  they've  got  money  enough  —  holy  smoke!" 
He  interrupted  himself  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 


68  Happy  Valley 

"Eight  added  to  six  makes  fourteen,  and  all  we 
need's  ten!" 

"Pa,  have  you  gone  clear  out  of  your  head?" 

"  And  Susie  makes  fifteen ! " 

"  Pa,  what  are  you  drivin'  at  ?  " 

"  You  bet  I'll  let  'em  come.  We  got  our  school ; 
now  all  we  need's  a  teacher ! " 

"  School ! " 

"Where?" 

"How?" 

And  the  thought  flashed  into  my  mind,  "  I'll  teach 
it  —  it  will  supply  the  cash  for  my  '  residence/  ' 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   COMING   OF    BULLPIT 

BEFORE  I  formed  the  thought  into  words, 
galloping  hoofs  came  to  a  stop  before  the  tent. 
There  was  a  loud  halloo,  and  Susie,  with  the  children 
at  her  heels,  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  dugout  to  see 
who  it  was.  They  pushed  back  the  tentflap :  Bullpit, 
astride  his  horse,  smiled  down  on  the  group  —  Bull- 
pit,  in  a  ready-made  spring  suit  of  reddish  brown, 
with  new  brown  leather  leggings  that  gave  his  thin 
flat  calves  a  chubby  roundness,  a  golden  brown  tie 
beneath  his  receding  chin,  and  a  jaunty  imitation 
panama  hat  thrust  back  from  his  forehead,  display 
ing  his  thick,  coarse,  red  hair. 

He  wore  fringed  gauntlet  gloves,  and  he  carried 
a  shiny  new  whip,  while  a  coil  of  stiff  new  rope  was 
looped  about  his  saddle  horn.  He  was  distinctly 
decked  out.  For  whose  benefit?  My  eyes  rested 
quickly  on  Susie.  She  stood  on  the  step,  gazing  up, 
evidently  pleased  with  his  very  shiny  appearance. 

"Well,  I've  come  home."  He  dismounted  with 
engaging  showiness.  He  thrust  back  his  coat  and 
ran  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  displaying  a  waistcoat 

69 


70 


Happy  Valley 


of  straw-colored  brocade.    His  entire  attitude  said, 
"  Some  get-up,  eh  ?    Some  class  to  this  caller,  eh  ?  " 

He  turned  quickly  and  un 
tied  a  gunny  bag  from  his 
saddle,  from  which  he  pro 
duced  a  very  pink  box  of 
candy  for  Susie. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bullpit, 
come  right  in,"  Mother 
Clark  said,  while  the  old 
man  went  off  into  a  peal  of 
laughter.  "Coin'  to  home 
stead  in  them  clothes?"  he 
asked. 

The  children  were 
greedily  attached  to  Susie  who  had  retreated  into 
the  tent  and  was  untying  the  knot  with  some  diffi 
culty. 

"  No,  my  pack  animal  is  along."  He  waved  his 
hand  grandiloquently  as  though  he  had  said  my 
cortege.  We  looked  back  and  saw  a  very  discon 
solate  and  plainly  ribbed  mule  nibbling  at  the  grass. 
Bullpit  then  came  down  the  steps  slowly,  making  a 
pause  at  each  step,  all  self -consciousness,  principally 
of  his  leather  calves.  "  My  friend,"  he  said,  smiling 
but  shaking  a  finger  at  our  old  man,  "  I've  got  a 
crow  to  pick  with  you.  What  kind  of  a  neighbor 


Bullpit 


The  Coming  of  Bullpit  71 

are  you,  anyway,  running  a  man  out  of  his  lawful 
business  ?  I've  a  mind  to  sue  you." 

Our  old  man  was  plainly  taken  aback,  for  under 
the  bantering  was  a  current  of  seriousness. 

"I  had  a  fine  lot  of  settlers  ready  to  come  in  — 
would  have  netted  me  one  hundred  dollars  apiece 
for  locating  them.  I  meant  to  bring  them  all  down 
here,  neighbors  for  you,  give  Happy  Valley  the 
benefit.  And  now  you  come  out  with  that  offer  to 
locate  any  man  free  who  wants  to  come  in  —  and 
my  business  vanishes  like — ."  He  puffed  and  ges 
tured  into  the  air  in  an  airy  manner.  But  his  eyes 
came  quickly  back  to  our  old  man  who,  for  once, 
was  silent. 

"  Tough  on  a  chap,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
"  to  see  his  business  go  up  in  smoke.  Specially  after 
I'd  spent  some  little  money  getting  them  interested, 
getting  them  in  the  mood  to  come  way  off  down 
here.  I  said  to  them,  I  says,  *  It's  a  long  distance, 
but  there  are  compensations;'  that's  just  what  I 
said.  I  said,  'Look  at  me.  I've  got  this  whole 
inland  empire  to  choose  from,  and  where  do  I  go 
to  take  up  land  ?  Why,  right  down  in  the  heart  of 
Happy  Valley  beside  old  man  Clark ;'  that's  what 
I  said.  And  they  would  have  come,  and  paid  the 
fee  gladly;  it's  worth  it;  it's  charged  all  over,  and 
more.  And  I'd  a  done  white  by  'em  too,  mighty 


72 Happy  Valley 

white.  I'd  a  brought  'em  in  and  taken  'em  back  in 
automobiles  to  do  their  riling,  that's  what  I  would 
have  done.  But  — "  he  again  shrugged  and  made 
the  gesture  significant  of  all  having  gone  up  in 
smoke.  "You're  wanting  to  play  philanthropist, 
Mr.  Clark.  You're  wanting  to  take  care  of  other 
folks'  families,  while  yours — ."  He  cast  his  eye 
about  the  dilapidated  tent,  already  pitted  with  holes 
where  sparks  from  the  cookstove  had  lighted. 

"  But  that's  the  way  with  some  men,"  he  shrugged 
again.  "  Me  now,  I'm  different.  I'm  there  as  quick 
as  the  next  one  to  lend  a  helping  hand,  but  I  don't 
drag  my  —  my  family  if  I  had  a  family  —  in  the 
mire  with  me  while  I'm  holding  out  the  helping 
hand.  In  other  words,  I  mean  to  make  a  home 
down  here  in  your  midst,  a  good  home,  for  a  good 
woman.  The  kind  of  a  home  a  man  has  a  right  to 
ask  a  nice  girl  to  share;  that's  what  I  mean  to 
do,  and  I  needed  the  money,  but — ."  Again  that 
expressive  shrug  and  gesture. 

Our  old  man  was  clearly  nonplussed.  He  sat 
down  on  a  barrel  head  and  rested  his  chin  in  his 
hands. 

"  I'm  right  down  sorry,  Bullpit,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"I'm  dinged  if  I'm  not  right  down  sorry.  I  never 
thought  of  doin'  another  out  of  his  job.  I  just 
thought—." 


The  Coming  of  Bullpit  73 

Bullpit  sprang  blithely  up  —  he  had  perched  on 
the  corner  of  the  table  and  turned  his  leather  calves 
well  out  —  and  slapped  our  old  man  familiarly  on 
the  shoulder.  "  Never  you  mind,  old  man,  I'll  pull 
through  some  way.  I've  brought  in  supplies  enough 
to  last  me  till  I've  established  residence  and  got  a 
little  plowing  done,  then  I  can  go  back  to  town  and 
get  a  job  at  any  old  thing.  But  I  did  want  to  stay. 
Gosh,  but  the  air's  sweet  down  here ! " 

He  strode  to  the  tent  opening  and  looked  up  to 
the  square  of  out-of-doors,  then  turned  suddenly  as 
though  dismissing  Elysium.  "  But  we'll  let  bygones 
be  bygones"  —  he  thrust  out  his  hand  to  our  old 
man  —  "and  not  say  another  word  about  it.  Not 
another  word;  no,  not  another  word."  He  fanned 
the  air  with  his  refusals,  but  he  needn't  have  been 
so  persistent,  for  poor  old  Clark  had  nothing  to 
say. 

"  Where  are  the  settlers  now  ?  "  asked  Susie,  look 
ing  at  him  levelly,  her  sharp  little  chin  well  up,  the 
candy  box  still  unopened.  I  could  see  she  was  net 
tled  by  the  position  her  father  had  been  put  in, 
though  she  hadn't  quite  analyzed  the  matter.  As 
for  myself,  I  wanted  to  take  the  wretched  little  wart 
and  nip  him  off  the  face  of  our  fair  Valley. 

"  Pa  never  was  one  to  look  out  for  number  one," 
Mrs.  Clark  commented  pepperly.  "It  ain't  Pa's 


74  Happy  Valley 

way.  Of  course,  he  could  have  charged  them  one 
hundred  dollars  apiece,  too.  But  it  ain't  Pa's  way." 

Bullpit  turned  jauntily  on  her.  "  Soft,  soft,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Clark.  You  couldn't  get  one  hundred 
after  they  got  down  here.  You  have  to  have  them 
deposit  it  at  Two  Forks  to  your  credit  before  you 
take  them  to  see  the  land.  Then  if  they  file,  it's 
yours.  You  wait  till  they  get  down  here  all  alone, 
unpiloted,  and  what  strings  have  you  on  their 
hundred?  No,  Pa  couldn't  have  worked  it." 

"Where  are  the  settlers  now?"  persisted  Susie, 
her  little  pointed  chin  still  up. 

"Why,  don't  you  see  —  "  Bullpit  floundered  and 
looked  about  from  one  to  the  other,  "  don't  you  see 
—  well,  just  naturally  when  I  found  myself  done  out 
of  — "  he  counted  it  on  his  fingers  —  "one,  two, 
three,  four,  five  —  yes,  five  hundred  dollars  — 
enough  to  have  started  me  beautifully  on  my  home 
stead  over  by  our  friend  here"  —  he  gestured  to 
ward  me  —  "I  naturally,  you  see,  felt  pretty  sore 
and  done  up,  don't  you  see,  and  I  just  got  together 
my  traps  and  came  along.  I  left  the  settlers  to  do 
as  they  pleased." 

"Pa's  settlers?" 

"Well,  yes,  they'd  seen  that  letter  in  the  paper, 
and  they  just  bundled  up  and  came  without  waiting 
for  further  word." 


The  Coming  of  Bullpit  75 

"  Then  they  weren't  your  settlers ;  they  were 
Pa's." 

" They'd  have  been  mine,  don't  you  see?  For  1 
am  at  every  stage  watching  for  newcomers.  They'd 
have  come  anyway,  as  it  was  in  their  blood,  the  land 
fever.  They've  been  thinking  about  it  all  year  — 
and  longer  —  no  doubt.  That  letter  just  started 
them  coming  this  way." 

"  Still,  after  all,  they  were  Pa's  settlers." 

He  made  his  expressive  gesture  and  again 
laughed. 

"  Pa's  settlers ;  by  all  means,  have  it  that  way." 

"That's  the  way  it  is."  Susie  persisted,  her  chin 
higher;  but  her  mother  said,  "Come,  come,  Susie, 
don't  argue,"  and  Bullpit  went  over  and  asked  her 
for  a  chocolate  cream.  She  pointed  to  the  floor 
where  the  pink  box  was  a  center  of  interest  for  six 
besmudged,  messy  youngsters.  I  turned  away  to 
hide  a  smile.  Some  way,  I  felt  better. 

But  the  next  minute  my  satisfaction  vanished. 
Clark  was  telling  Bullpit  of  his  plan  for  a  school. 
It  seemed  that  by  reason  of  certain  school  land  sales, 
all  they  had  to  do  to  get  a  good-sized  piece  of  school 
money  was  to  organize  a  district.  With  the  eight 
children  on  the  way,  we  would  have  fifteen  pupils, 
and  a  district  required  but  ten.  Our  old  man  was 
for  organizing  the  district  as  soon  as  the  settlers  got 


76  Happy  Valley 

in.  They  could  throw  up  a  shack  of  the  lumber 
Tom  Lattig  had  sent  down  to  build  a  cabin  on  his 
mother's  homestead,  then  they  could  move  the  old 
lady  into  the  new  shack  so  she  could  protect  her 
claim,  and  rent  the  present  cabin  of  her  for  a  school- 
house.  The  old  lady  must  get  on  her  land  pretty 
soon;  the  son  would  be  mighty  pleased  to  have  his 
neighbors  put  up  the  shack  and  move  his  mother 
into  it,  and  thus  make  it  possible  for  her  to  keep  her 
obligations  to  Uncle  Sam,  who  required  residence  as 
well  as  cultivation.  It  would  work  out  beautifully. 
All  he  needed  now  was  a  few  more  settlers,  and  the 
man  with  his  eight  children  who,  he  thought  from 
the  tone  of  the  letter,  was  already  on  the  way,  was 
a  godsend. 

All  through  his  recital  Bullpit  kept  interjecting, 
''A  capital  idea!"  "  Such  resourcefulness !"  "Clark, 
you're  a  wonder ! "  "  If  we  had  more  settlers  like 
you." 

Finally  he  said,  "And  how  much  do  you  figure 
you  can  pay  the  teacher? " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  yet  just  what's  comin'  to 
us,  but  judgin'  from  what  I  heard  up  at  Two  Forks 
about  the  school  funds,  we  ought  to  be  able  to  pay 
sixty  dollars  a  month  for  three  months  now,  then 
toward  next  spring,  mebby  three  more  months.  I'd 
say  not  less  than  sixty  dollars.  It'll  be  hard,  mebby, 


The  Coming  of  Bullpit  77 

gettin'  a  teacher,  a  right  good  teacher,  to  come 
down  here  and  teach  a  pioneer  school  and  live  in  a 
tent." 

Bullpit  was  thoughtfully  pulling  at  his  lower  lip, 
making  it  now  into  a  coal  scuttle,  now  letting  it  go 
back  in  its  accustomed  buttonhole.  "  Urn,  yes,  that 
will  be  some  problem,  getting  a  teacher  to  come 
down  into  homestead  land  and  live  in  a  tent.  Um  — 
yes."  Suddenly  a  brilliant  idea  struck  him.  He  sat 
up  as  straight  as  a  jumping  jack  pulled  by  its  string, 
while  his  eyes  flashed.  I  noticed  how  red  the  rims 
were.  "  How'd  I  do  ?  "  The  old  man  looked  at  him 
queerly,  not  taking  him  seriously. 

"  But  no,  I  wouldn't  ask  for  it.  It  would  be  too 
much  like  saying,  '  You've  done  me  out  of  my  own 
business,  now  help  me  out  a  little  with  your  patron 
age.'  No,  it  would  be  too  much  like  that.  I  wouldn't 
ask  any  favor  of  any  man,  much  less  a  man  that 
might  feel  sort  of  obliged  to  grant  it.  No,  I  won't 
give  it  another  thought."  He  got  promptly  up  and 
strode  bravely  toward  the  door,  then  turned.  "I'll 
go  on  to  my  homestead.  I  want  to  get  settled  before 
dark.  The  latch  string  will  always  be  out  to  all  the 
Clarks,  and  a  welcome  as  big  as  a  barn  over  the 
door.  Good-bye  for  the  present ! " 

He  ran  up  the  steps  very  much  as  a  vaudeville 
performer  runs  off  the  stage. 


78  Happy  Valley 


"  Wait,  wait,  Mr.  Bullpit."  It  was  Mother  Clark. 
She  began  wrapping  up  a  loaf  of  her  warm  bread 
and  pushing  it  into  a  flour  sack.  "  Take  this  along 
to  save  you  bakin'  tonight." 

He  turned,  and  a  beatific  smile,  all  recognition  of 
a  sweetly  gracious  act  in  a  world  otherwise  hard 
and  cold,  swept  over  his  red  face.  "Ah,  but  that 
is  dear  of  you." 

He  now  spoke  directly  to  me  for  the  first  time 
since  his  blow-in.  "  I  presume  you  are  nicely  set 
tled  with  a  good  little  house  on  your  homestead, 
Brent?" 

"  No,"  I  informed  him,  "  I  have  not  yet  established 
residence/' 

"  No  ?  "  he  frowned,  and  then  smiled.  "  But  there 
is  still  so  much  land,  one  is  comparatively  safe. 
However,  Uncle  Sam  must  be  obeyed  or  we  will  get 
in  trouble,  specially  with  land  with  a  spring  on  it. 
Very  attractive,  that  spring.  Well,  once  more, 
adieu."  He  was  gone. 

Susie  rose  straight  up  from  the  midst  of  the 
messy  kids,  her  eyes  flashing.  "  Pa,  you're  not 
going  to  let  him  teach  our  school  ?  " 

"Why,  no,  honey,  I  hadn't  thought  about  who'd 
teach  it.  We'll  be  regular.  We'll  let  it  be  known 
we  want  a  teacher,  and  then  choose  the  best  out  of 
the  applicants.  That's  the  regular  way." 


The  Coming  of  Bullpit 79 

"Because,  if  you  were — ."  Her  eyes  were 
militant. 

I  spoke.  "  I  had  thought  of  making  application 
myself,"  I  said,  "  But  Susie  rather  scares  me." 

"  I  wish  you  would ! "  cried  Susie,  turning  on  me. 
"I'd  love  to  learn  to  write  —  like  you!" 

"Now,  why  didn't  you  speak  right  up  when  we 
first  talked  about  it?"  demanded  Mother  Clark  re 
gretfully.  "  I  know  how  Pa  is  when  he  thinks  he's 
injured  a  man,  and  it'll  be  just  like  Pa — ." 

The  old  man  threw  his  hands  to  his  head  as 
though  fighting  away  buzzing  hornets,  and  made  for 
the  door.  "We  ain't  got  no  district  yet,  or  no 
schoolhouse,  or  no  pupils,  or  —  hello!" 

He  stopped  short  off  on  the  top  step  and  we  all 
ran  up  back  of  him.  There  were  not  enough 
changes  of  scene  on  our  landscape  to  miss  even  one. 
There,  not  a  mile  away,  was  a  white  prairie 
schooner,  and  coming  down  the  far  mountain  side 
were  three  white  specks  that  meant  others. 

"  Settlers ! "  cried  the  old  man,  in  a  voice  that 
choked.  "Settlers!" 

Mother  Clark,  standing  beside  him,  her  arms 
folded  in  her  apron,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  far 
distance,  said,  "I  wonder  if  there's  any  women!" 

And  Susie,  "I  hope  there's  some  girls  my  age!" 

I  had  stepped  outside  the  tent,  and  now  turned 


so  Happy  Valley 


back  to  the  little  group  in  the  doorway.  The  tent 
looked  so  small,  the  people  so  few,  and  the  land  so 
mighty ! 

"  Billy  ain't  sayin'  nothin',"  the  old  man  noticed. 

"I'm  hoping  for  children;  for  I'm  in  earnest 
about  wanting  that  school,"  I  told  him.  Susie,  turned 
quickly  to  me  with  a  happy  smile. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PA'S    SETTLERS 

OUR  old  man  sized  up  our  first  settlers  well 
enough  for  all  practical  purposes:  "They 
ain't  very  pretty  and  they  got  odd  ways  about  'em, 
but  they'll  do." 

They  certainly  weren't  pretty.  An  old  man  drove 
the  first  outfit  that  drew  up  before  the  Clark  tent. 
He  was  no  older,  perhaps,  than  our  old  man,  but  oh, 
so  sad.  His  eyes  were  big  and  mournful  and  mostly 
on  the  outside  of  his  face.  His  mouth  was  wide 
and  thin  and  drooped  pitifully  at  the  corners.  He 
continually  chewed,  working  his  big,  flat,  angular 
jaw,  and  this  produced  a  sort  of  rotary  motion  of 
his  long  nose.  He  wanted  to  know,  before  getting 
down,  how  much  we  charged  for  meals.  Our  old 
man  took  it  as  a  huge  joke,  and  slapped  his  stout 
thighs  and  laughed  till  I  thought  he  would  explode, 
while  the  settler  solemnly  chewed  on,  working  his 
jaw  and  his  nose. 

On  the  seat  beside  him  sat  a  man  who  had  not 
lifted  his  head  from  a  book  he  was  reading.  He 
seemed  bent  on  finishing  the  chapter.  He  was  clean 

81 


82  Happy  Valley 

shaven,  small,  dark,  slick,  and  neat  in  spite  of  the 
dust.  I  could  imagine  him  near  the  entrance  of  the 
Emporium  at  home,  saying,  "  This  way,  ladies."  At 
last  he  lifted  his  head,  and  apparently  discovered  for 
the  first  time  that  the  team  had  stopped,  that  a  tent 
was  before  him,  and  that  a  group  of  human  beings 
had  some  way  been  belched  up  from  the  earth  to  a 
spot  within  the  focus  of  his  eyes.  He  took  us  in 
without  surprise  or  question,  carefully  marked  the 
place  in  his  book,  laid  the  book  beside  him  on  the 
wagon  seat,  and  asked,  "  Have  we,  then,  arrived?" 

"Yes;  conductor  a  little  slow  about  callin'  the 
station,"  our  old  man  answered,  chuckling.  "  Alight, 
friends;  get  down  and  come  right  in;  mother'll 
give  you  some  hot  coffee  and  fresh  bread,  and  I 
guess  there's  some  ham  and  potatoes  that  won't  go 
bad,  eh,  mother?  Get  down,  friends;  get  down." 

The  old  driver  chewed  on.  "First,  I  want  to 
know  what  it's  going  to  cost  me.  Food  for  self 
and  one-half  the  team.  My  friend  here  pays  for 
himself  and  the  other  half." 

"  Not  a  copper,  friend ;  not  a  copper.  Get  down, 
get  down;  you  must  be  stiff  with  settinV 

The  old  man  climbed  out  with  a  spryness  of  which 
I  would  not  have  believed  him  capable.  His  com 
panion  took  another  look  at  his  book,  then  got  down 
reluctantly. 


Pa's  Settlers  83 


"My  name's  Sneed;  Sol  Sneed.  And  this  is  Mr. 
Howard,  who  I  fell  in  with  at  Ossing.  We  joined 
forces  and  shared  expenses.  I'm  from  up  Vermont 
way,  and  Howard's  from  Boston.  We're  here  to  take 
up  your  offer  to  be  located,  free;  you  understand, 
free !  I'd  like  it  in  writing." 

Again  our  old  man  went  off  into  a  spasm  of 
laughter,  while  Mrs.  Clark's  head  went  up  stiffly, 
and  Susie  looked  to  me  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

"Come,  Susie,"  said  her  mother,  starting  down 
the  steps.  "We'll  get  dinner  goin'." 

I  offered  to  peel  the  potatoes,  but  Susie  shook  her 
head.  "  You'd  peel  'em  too  thick ;  we  have  to  almost 
scrape  'em;  my  goodness,  but  I'll  be  glad  when  the 
new  ones  come  and  we  can  have  enough  potatoes  at 
any  rate."  She  ran  down  the  steps. 

I  turned  to  the  man  from  Boston,  who  had  again 
picked  up  his  book  and  was  deep  into  it.  I  think  he 
had  not  cast  a  solitary  glance  at  the  country,  the 
tent  —  not  even  at  Susie. 

'[ Good  yarn?" 

He  lifted  his  small,  steady,  black  eyes,  and  re 
garded  me  as  the  dirt  under  his  feet ;  no,  he  had  not 
looked  at  the  dirt  under  his  feet.  I  must  find 
another  figure.  Never  mind ;  he  looked  at  me,  and 
after  a  long  stare  vouchsafed  the  information :  "  It 
is  Bledstoe  on  Dry  Farming.  I  am  told  that  this 


84 


Happy  Valley 


section  has  thirteen  inches  of  rainfall ;  Bledstoe  says 
thirteen  inches  is  enough  for  dry  farming ;  I  am  told 
that  this  is  mostly  sagebrush  land  with  very  little 
greasewood;  Bleds 
toe  says  that  is  the 
proper  land  for  dry 
farming ;  I  am  told 
small  grains  will  do 
well  here;  accord 
ing  to  Bledstoe — " 

"Why,  yes; 
they'll  do  fine;  we 
have  enough 
samples  coming  on 
to  demonstrate 
that.  Come  on  out 
and  see  our  little 
experimental  sta 
tion.  The  rabbits  have  taken  a  good  deal  of  it,  but 
you  can  see  that  everything  is  coming  on  thriftily, 
even  the  vegetables." 

He  followed  me  rather  regretfully,  his  finger  still 
keeping  his  place  in  Bledstoe.  He  gazed  at  the 
garden  ruefully,  and  the  fence  bothered  him. 

"  Bledstoe  says  nothing  about  fencing  of  this 
peculiar  nature." 

He  seemed  to  want  to  dispute  the  fence,  and  yet 


The  Book-farmer 


Pa's  Settlers  b5 


it  was  there.  I  turned  away  to  hide  a  smile,  and 
saw  Susie  watching  us  from  the  back  of  the  tent. 
Throwing  her  wicked  hands  to  her  wicked  mouth, 
she  ran  on  around  the  tent,  out  of  sight,  to  hide  her 
amusement.  I  sobered  as  best  I  could  and  gave  my 
attention  to  our  settler. 

"  Bledstoe  possibly  has  left  out  many  of  the  facts 
of  pioneering,"  I  suggested. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  shall  be  governed  by  Bledstoe ! " 
he  defied  me.  "  I  think  I  have  read  everything  writ 
ten  on  dry  farming.  You  possibly  do  not  know  the 
advantages  of  Boston's  public  library." 

"  Possibly  not,"  I  murmured,  and  followed  him, 
for  he  had  turned  away  from  our  fence  and  headed 
back  toward  the  tent. 

Our  old  man  was  talking  with  Sneed,  who  seemed 
gloomier  than  ever,  and  laying  before  him  his  idea 
of  the  valley's  settlement.  "  The  main  road  through 
the  country,"  he  said,  "bein'  right  along  here  and 
already  established,  decides  the  trend  of  travel;  it 
will  all  come  this  way.  There's  a  considerable  val 
ley  on  south  that'll  be  settled  later.  Naturally, 
settlers  will  make  for  the  center  of  the  valley.  You'd 
have  a  chance  to  sell  supplies  to  all  those  comin'  and 
goin',  and  if  I  see  things  right,  there's  goin'  to  be 
right  smart  of  a  settler  movement  this  spring;  then 
there's  the  sheep  men;  they  buy  supplies  in  big 


86  Happy  Valley 


quantities,  and  now  they  have  to  go  to  Two  Forks 
for  everything.  They'd  be  glad  of  a  store  down 
here." 

A  store!  Was  our  old  man  crazy?  Or  did  his 
eyes  really  see  true?  Howard  was  not  listening. 
He  had  found  a  soap  box  and  lost  himself  in 
Bledstoe.  Susie  called  dinner. 

Sol  Sneed  limbered  up  and  was  the  first  one  down 
the  steps,  his  nostrils  working  at  the  smell  of  food. 
He  pulled  up  a  keg  and  sat  down.  Mother  Clark 
got  the  rest  of  us  seated  in  some  way,  and  our  old 
man  started  the  dishes  around  the  table.  I  saw  now 
the  advantage  of  the  continual  motion  plan  of  Sol 
Sneed's  jaw.  The  amount  of  ham  and  fresh  bread 
and  boiled  potatoes  and  cream  gravy  that  that  caver 
nous  jaw  could  handle,  and  that  cavernous  maw  put 
away  was  tragic  for  a  homesteader.  I  wondered  if 
he  had  a  family,  and  if  they  took  after  him  —  and 
if  he  had  a  good  bank  account. 

The  Book- farmer,  for  such  Susie  called  him  — 
and  such  he  remained  —  ate  absent  mindedly,  after 
having  asked  politely  for  a  napkin.  Once,  some  time 
afterward,  he  said  to  me,  "It's  peculiar,  isn't  it, 
what  a  fondness  all  these  people  have  for  cream 
gravy.  I  find  it  —  I  might  almost  say  —  indigenous 
to  the  country.  Everywhere,  they  are  eating  this 
peculiar  thickened  substance  known  as  cream  gravy. 


Pa's  Settlers  87 


I  would  like  to  look  it  up  —  that's  the  drawback  of 
being  so  far  from  a  library;  I  would  like  to  look 
up  the  foods  of  pioneer  peoples,  and  see  if  there  is 
anything  about  pioneering  that  makes  the  stomach 
crave  this  odd  dish." 

"It's  just  possible,"  I  suggested,  "that  the  fact 
of  one  cow  to  supply  thirteen  people,  including  six 
children,  to  say  nothing  of  guests,  has  some  bearing 
on  the  butter  supply,  and  that  cream  gravy  thus 
becomes  a  substitute  not  so  much  chosen  as  thrust 
on  the  pioneer." 

He  looked  at  me  doubtingly,  and  said,  "  Possibly," 
but  without  a  flicker  of  light  in  his  face. 

Ed  and  Jim  were  both  busy  plowing,  so,  after 
dinner,  I  went  with  Mr.  Clark  and  our  settlers  to 
look  for  land.  They  knew  no  more  than  I  had  about 
finding  corners,  or  choosing  soil,  and  but  for  a  con 
stantly  suspicious  attitude  on  the  part  of  Sol  Sneed, 
who  seemed  under  the  hallucination  that  someone 
was  going  to  do  him  out  of  something,  were  easily 
located.  Our  old  man  was  pretty  cute  about  it, 
locating  Sneed  some  distance  to  the  north  of  Tent- 
town.  He  suggested  that,  as  our  friend  was  to  put 
in  a  small  store  of  supplies,  he  had  better  be  to  the 
north  of  the  valley's  center  in  reach  of  settlers  who 
might  come  down  over  the  mountain  and  turn  east 
or  west  rather  than  south.  This  located  him  fully 


88  Happy  Valley 


seven  miles  away,  which  was  certainly  near  enough 
to  old  "What's-in-it-for-me,"  a  name  Susie  gave 
him  and  which  stuck.  The  Book-farmer  took  the 
first  piece  suggested  to  him.  He  accepted  Mr. 
Clark's  word,  and  that  of  Bledstoe.  He  was  midway 
between  Tenttown  and  the  Lattig  ranch. 

We  found  another  prairie  schooner  when  we  re 
turned  that  afternoon,  bringing  our  Dutch  friend 
Schrieber,  with  his  eight  children  and  his  stout  wife. 
Already  he  was  out  skirmishing,  digging  into  the 
soil,  examining  the  sagebrush,  tasting  an  outcrop 
ping  of  whitish  powder  to  determine  what  kind  of 
salts  it  contained,  and  on  the  scent  of  greasewood. 
He  had  decided  on  his  land  for  himself,  preferring, 
as  had  Clark,  the  center  of  the  valley  and  three  hun 
dred  and  twenty  acres,  to  a  smaller  ranch  nearer  the 
hills  with  possible  irrigation.  He  would  be  a  close 
neighbor  to  the  Clarks. 

"  Right  here  I'll  shtop  mit  me,"  he  informed  us. 

Mother  Clark,  untiring  in  her  hospitality,  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  still  larger  boiling  of  potatoes,  frying 
of  ham,  and  stirring  of  cream  gravy.  The  eight 
children  ranged  from  three  to  sixteen  years,  and 
Susie  was  happy  over  a  girl  just  her  age.  She  and 
little  Dutch  Leeda  were  already  on  terms  of  inti 
macy.  Leeda  was  quaint  and  squat,  with  big, 
solemn,  blue  eyes  and  two  tightly  braided  pigtails, 


Pa's  Settlers  89 


and  each  of  the  other  little  daughters  of  Dutchland 
was  modelled  after  Leeda. 

There  is  certainly  character  in  dress.  Some 
way,  Susie  never  looked  ordinary  or  commonplace. 
Though  the  blue  ribbons  were  faded  almost  white, 
perky  bows  still  perched  jauntily  above  her  ears,  and 
though  her  middy  blouses  had  had  many  washings, 
they  carried  a  certain  air  all  their  own.  I  wondered 
if  Leeda,  in  Susie's  bows  and  middies,  wouldn't 
really  be  quite  a  pretty  girl;  and  I  wondered  just 
what  poor  little  Leeda's  fitted  basque  of  dull  red 
cashmere  would  do  to  Susie. 

Luckily,  the  Dutchman  had  money.  He  indicated 
that  he  had  enough  to  start  ranching  comfortably. 
He  wanted  to  buy  two  good  teams  —  his  had  gone 
lame  on  the  way  —  so  he  and  Leeda  could  each 
drive  a  team  grubbing  and  plowing.  It  was  late, 
but  he  meant  to  get  in  a  garden  and  a  good  root  crop 
for  the  coming  winter.  I  was  already  accustomed 
to  the  capability  of  the  Clark  women  folks,  so  I  was 
not  shocked  at  the  Dutchman's  matter  of  fact  state 
ment  regarding  Leeda.  It  was  evident  why  he  said 
Leeda  instead  of  his  wife.  A  ninth  little  Dutchman 
would  soon  add  himself  to  our  population. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DRINK  DOES  ITS  WORK 

coming  of  the  Dutchman  worked  a  hard- 
A  ship  for  me.  I  lost  the  use  of  Tom's  horses. 
Mother  Lattig,  always  with  a  shrewd  eye  for  busi 
ness,  had  been  much  concerned  over  the  prospect  of 
having  to  winter- feed  her  two  teams,  when  they 
were  doing  no  work  to  earn  their  board.  So  she 
sold  them  to  the  Dutchman,  and  I  now  had  to  make 
my  trips  to  Tenttown  afoot.  This  was  particularly 
unpleasant  owing  to  Bullpit's  presence.  He  had  set 
up  a  small  brown  government  tent,  and  was  digging 
around  it  with  a  show  of  grubbing  sagebrush.  He 
came  often  to  Mother  Lattig's  and  succeeded  in 
stirring  up  my  ire  with  his  continual  reminders  that 
I  had  not  established  residence  and  that  I  had  only 
till  the  first  of  September  to  do  so.  This  in  the  face 
of  the  forty  acres  which  I  had  cleared  while  he  had 
merely  set  up  a  tent,  nettled  me.  But  it  also  pricked 
my  sleeping  content.  It  was  perfectly  true  that  I 
must  establish  some  sort  of  residence  by  the  first  of 
September  or  any  other  settler  coming  in  would 
have  a  right  to  jump  my  claim.  Besides  a  tent  or 

90 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  91 

a  cabin,  the  law  required  that  ten  acres  should  be 
broken  up  ready  for  a  crop.  I  had,  however,  a  year 
in  which  to  do  this.  It  was  useless  to  put  in  a  crop 
without  rabbit  wire.  If  I  could  get  the  school,  the 
one  hundred  and  eighty  dollars  would  meet  all  these 
requirements.  I  could  think  of  no  other  way  for  I 
was  not  capable  of  earning  that  amount  of  money 
in  two  months.  I  would  not  apply  to  my  grandfather 
save  as  a  last  resort. 

Mother  Lattig  was  delighted  to  accept  the  propo 
sition  of  our  old  man  to  build  her  new  cabin  that  we 
might  rent  the  present  one  for  a  schoolhouse.  I 
helped  with  this,  doing  my  first  carpenter  work  since 
manual  training  days.  We  moved  Mother  Lattig 
into  the  new  cabin  on  her  own  land,  two  feet  away 
from  her  son's  residence,  and  proceeded  with  some 
of  the  smoother  boards  to  make  benches  and  desks. 
In  a  few  months  the  benches  would  come  out  and  the 
cabin  would  once  more  be  the  legal  home  of  Tom 
Lattig,  whom  the  government  permitted  to  be  away 
from  his  ranch  to  earn  his  living  so  long  as  his 
"  family  "  remained  on  it.  The  old  lady  had  four 
hundred  dollars  from  the  sale  of  her  horses  which 
she  told  me  she  had  buried.  Sometimes  I  was 
tempted  to  ask  her  to  lend  me  money  enough  to  buy 
a  tent,  but  I  hadn't  the  nerve.  To  borrow  money 
of  a  woman  —  and  when  I  had  learned  that  she 


92  Happy  Valley 

made  the  money  with  which  she  came  west  cooking 
in  a  Hungarian  restaurant  in  New  York  —  well,  I 
couldn't  do  it. 

It  is  difficult  to  explain  the  horror  that  came  over 
me  at  the  very  thought  of  leaving  Happy  Valley. 
I  had  been  three  months  homesteading,  and  I  felt 
healthy  in  body  and  mind.  The  air,  always  with  a 
tang  in  it,  had  also  a  rough  sort  of  character.  It 
was  like  a  big,  bluff,  well-meaning  friend  who  caught 
you  up  on  all  your  shortcomings  and  made  you  not 
only  ashamed  of  them  but  able  to  forget  them.  Even 
the  wind,  which  blew  steadily  and  fiercely  at  times 
for  days  on  end,  sending  sand  particles  biting  into 
face  and  eyes  and  hands,  even  the  wind  had  a  toning 
influence.  There  was  nothing  soft  and  tender  about 
this  sagebrush  country.  There  was  nothing  that 
petted  and  humored,  nothing  that  nurtured  defects. 
It  was  a  strong,  sturdy,  battling  country  that  fairly 
challenged  one  to  fight.  And  always  when  at  peace 
it  was  such  a  powerful  peace.  Sometimes  when  I 
would  climb  to  the  top  of  my  butte,  and  throwing 
myself  on  the  ground,  look  away  to  the  vast  spread 
of  country,  it  would  come  to  me  as  a  huge  canvas 
which  God  had  stretched  all  empty  and  bare,  wait 
ing  for  man  to  paint  there  his  pictures.  And  as 
I  would  lay  with  half -closed  eyes,  watching  and 
dreaming,  there  would  rise  before  me  interminable 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  93 

fields  of  waving  grain,  cattle  grazing  on  all  the  hills, 
and  here  and  there  —  not  too  close  together  —  sub 
stantial  farm  houses,  each  sending  tall  columns  of 
smoke  up  into  the  still  air.  A  quick  batting  of  the 
eyes,  a  sharp  look  around,  and  there  would  be  the 
vast  canvas,  cleared  for  another  picture.  Nothing 
was  ever  in  the  way  of  one's  dreaming. 

My  long  day  of  hooky  from  the  world's  troubled 
school  was  undoubtedly  too  idyllic  to  last.  I  knew 
that  it  could  not  last.  I  must  make  some  kind  of  a 
move.  I  must  get  money.  But  to  pry  myself  loose, 
to  thrust  myself  out  of  Arcadia,  was  more  than  I 
had  the  will  to  accomplish  alone. 

And  so  in  the  goodness  of  Providence,  Bullpit 
was  sent  to  do  the  prying.  He  came  over  one  noon 
when  I  had  been  resting  from  a  hard  morning's 
work. 

"You  know  you  could  sell  a  relinquishment  for 
a  pretty  good  price,"  he  said,  reading  my  problem. 
"  Ranches  with  springs  of  sweet  water  are  not  ,so 
plenty  now.  I  could  get  you  a  right  good  price, 
then  you  could  take  up  three  hundred  and  twenty 
out  in  the  center  there  and  dry  farm." 

"  My  ranch  is  not  for  sale,"  I  said  sharply. 

"Have  it  your  way,"  Bullpit  shrugged.  "I 
thought  you  needed  the  money.  Of  course  if  you're 
in  funds  I've  nothing  to  say.  Only  you  act  queer 


94  Happy  Valley 

for  a  man  in  funds;  you  ain't  doing  much  toward 
establishing  residence  by  the  first  of  September." 

"  It  didn't  seem  to  take  you  long,"  I  retorted  with 
a  nod  toward  his  insignificant  little  tent. 

"It  ain't  the  improvements  you  make,  it's  how 
well  you  keep  within  the  letter  of  the  law  that 
counts." 

"  You  think  your  tent  would  satisfy  Uncle  Sam 
better  than  my  forty  acres  of  clearing?" 

"  The  letter  of  the  law  calls  for  residence,  and  a 
tent  is  accepted  as  residence.  The  amount  of  crop 
ping  don't  count,  that  is,  beyond  the  ten  acres 
required  each  year." 

"  You'd  better  get  busy  on  your  ten  acres  then,  as 
you  respect  the  law." 

Bullpit  always  annoyed  me,  even  when,  as  in  the 
present  instance,  he  was  really  suggesting  a  prac 
tical  way  out.  But  I  didn't  want  a  ranch  out  in  the 
valley ;  I  wanted  my  own  ranch  here  on  the  plateau, 
with  Coyote  Butte  nosing  down  onto  it.  The  spring 
alone  was  worth  a  fortune  to  me.  It  was  the  best 
water  I  ever  tasted,  clear  and  cold  and  pure  and 
satisfying.  I  must  have  drunk  gallons  of  it,  daily. 
It  seemed  to  quench  my  thirst  as  no  other  water 
did.  And  it  was  sufficient  for  irrigation. 

I  loved  my  ranch,  —  I  would  not  give  it  up.  All 
thought  of  appealing  to  my  grandfather  was  dissi- 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  95 

pated  by  a  letter  from  Ennis.  She  informed  me 
gloomily  that  she  had  had  to  dismiss  the  maids  and 
was  doing  the  housework  as  best  she  could  with 
Claire's  help.  Claire  was  so  mortified  over  their 
reduced  circumstances  that  she  would  see  no  one. 
Grandfather  had  lost  heavily  on  some  investments 
and  he  was  breaking.  No,  I  could  not  write  to  him. 
Besides  he  had  taken  no  interest  in  me  since  I  had 
left  home.  I  understood  better,  now,  his  bitterness 
toward  me.  He  had  needed  help  and  he  had  relied 
on  me  —  and  I  had  failed  him.  I  did  my  best  to 
put  him  out  of  mind,  and  turned  to  my  personal 
problem.  By  getting  on  my  own  feet,  only,  could 
I  manage  ever  to  help  him. 

I  had  hoped  some  of  the  new  settlers  would  need 
an  extra  hand,  but  so  far  they  were  self-sufficient. 
The  Dutchman  had  money,  but  also  he  had  his  pri 
vate  corps  of  little  Dutchies.  He  had  filed  on  a 
desert  claim  of  three  hundred  and  twenty  acres  ad 
joining  his  homestead,  and  had  bought  another  three 
hundred  and  twenty  with  scrip,  so  that  now  he  had 
nearly  a  thousand  acres.  Early  and  late  he  and 
Leeda  worked  with  the  teams,  while  his  younger 
children  stacked  sagebrush  for  winter  fuel.  Tent 
ing  had  appealed  to  all  the  settlers.  Lumber  would 
have  to  be  hauled  over  one  hundred  miles,  which 
made  it  costly  to  say  nothing  of  the  time  and  the 


96 Happy  Valley 

wear  and  tear  on  teams.  And  the  main  thing  was 
to  get  the  soil  speedily  into  a  crop.  The  Dutchman 
was  intent  on  summer  fallowing.  He  was  able 
to  buy  such  tools  as  he  needed  and  put  his  labor 
directly  into  his  soil.  He  would  soon  have  a  fine 
ranch. 

Clark  and  his  boys  were  not  so  well  fixed.  I 
could  see  that  uneasiness  over  the  lack  of  ready  cash 
was  beginning  to  shadow  their  blissful  adventure. 
They  had  got  rabbit  wire  and  they  had  thirty  acres 
in  potatoes  and  other  root  crops.  The  garden  was 
doing  exceptionally  well.  The  rabbits  had  made 
only  a  sort  of  thinning  out  that  would  have  had  to 
come  sooner  or  later.  Mother  Lattig  had  invested 
in  rabbit  wire  and  had  also  saved  her  garden.  The 
country  was  doing  wonderfully,  living  up  to  our 
highest  hopes.  If  only  we  had  a  little  capital ! 

It  was  August  before  I  summoned  the  nerve  to 
put  my  problem  plainly  to  Mr.  Clark.  I  walked 
over  to  Tenttown  one  morning  and  found  Susie  en 
gaged  in  taming  a  young  coyote.  One  of  the  men 
had  caught  it  in  a  trap,  and  Susie,  who  couldn't  bear 
to  see  anything  killed,  had  plead  for  its  life.  The 
flaxen  headed  babies  were  gathered  about,  in  awed 
delight.  Her  father,  she  told  me,  was  helping  the 
Book- farmer. 

I  walked  back  to  his  place.    He  had  made  a  good- 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  97 

sized  clearing  and  our  old  man  was  helping  him 
plow.  He  was  going  to  summer  fallow,  preparatory 
to  sowing  winter  wheat.  Nothing  could  induce  him 
to  plant  so  much  as  an  onion  or  a  head  of  lettuce 
until  after  the  first  fallowing.  It  was  the  advice  of 
the  book.  He  had  been  a  mixer  of  drinks  back  of 
a  Boston  soda  fountain,  and  mixing  drinks  does  not 
give  one  the  muscle  needed  for  holding  a  plow 
steadily  from  sun  up  till  sun  set.  He  was  glad  to 
have  help. 

Another  thing  which  had  kept  the  Book- farmer 
unendingly  busy  was  his  need  to  follow  the  exact 
rules  laid  down  in  summer  camp  books  for  estab 
lishing  his  tenting  quarters.  I  must  confess  to  a 
wave  of  pure  envy  when  I  beheld  his  neat,  well- 
staked  tent  and  its  orderly  interior.  Most  of  the 
settlers  lived  and  worked  out  of  doors  and  used 
their  tents  merely  as  a  protection  from  the  wind  and 
for  such  necessities  as  cooking  and  sleeping.  With 
the  Book-farmer  the  program  of  life  within  his  tent 
was  as  exact  as  that  without.  Nothing  was  omitted. 

I  took  our  old  man  to  one  side  and  had  a  serious 
talk  with  him  about  the  school  which  was  to  begin 
in  September.  He  had  organized  the  district  which 
was  thirty  miles  long,  but  it  was  regular,  with 
funds,  and  had  been  approved  by  the  county  court. 

Our  old  man  scratched  his  stubby  chin  and  ap- 


98  Happy  Valley 

peared  troubled.  "  There  ain't  a  livin'  thing  in  the 
way  of  it  but  Bullpit,"  he  confessed.  "  He's  been 
hammerin'  away  about  that  school  all  summer. 
If  it  hadn't  a  been  for  doin'  him  out  of  his 
locatin'  fees  —  and  his  askin'  first  —  ding  it  all, 
I'd  like  mighty  well  to  see  you  teach  that  school, 
Billy." 

I  knew  they  had  appointed  three  directors,  Clark, 
the  Book-farmer,  and  the  Dutchman.  I  looked  over 
to  the  Book- farmer  methodically  plowing,  and 
doubted  my  appeal  to  him.  We  were  not  congenial 
spirits.  I  thought  of  the  Dutchman.  I  had  not 
been  at  much  pains  to  cultivate  his  friendship,  he 
being  always  busy.  I  remembered  now  that  Bullpit 
had  ridden  over  and  helped  him  plow  on  several 
occasions.  My  prospects  looked  doubtful. 

"  You  got  a  certificate  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  don't  think  there  will  be  much  trouble 
about  that.  I  am  rather  fresh  from  school,  and 
scholarship  was  never  a  bugbear  to  me." 

"That's  right.  I'd  put  money  on  your  scholar 
ship  any  day;  that  letter  you  wrote,  now  —  say, 
Billy,  I  got  it !  You're  pretty  sure  of  your  scholar 
ship.  Bullpit  mebby  is  and  mebby  isn't.  You'll 
both  have  to  take  the  examinations.  Why,  man, 
you'll  have  to  be  gettin'  right  up  to  Two  Forks. 
You  both  go  take  the  examinations,  and  I  pledge  my 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  99 

word  to  the  one  that  makes  the  best  grades.  That's 
no  more  than  fair ! " 

I  agreed  that  that  was  fair. 

"And  I'll  bring  our  friend  here  over  to  my  way 
o'  seein'  it;  he  would  kind  o'  respect  grades,  the 
Book-farmer,"  he  added  with  a  sly  smile. 

"  I  think  he  would,"  I  agreed. 

"  Then  go  to  it,  and  here's  luck,  boy ! "  He  thrust 
out  his  horny  hand.  I  grasped  it.  "  Another  thing, 
you'd  oughta  bring  a  tent  down  with  you  from  Two 
Forks  for  you'll  just  about  get  back  in  time  to  estab 
lish  residence  by  the  first  of  September.  I've  sighted 
more  homesteaders  comin'  in  lately  than  you  could 
shake  a  stick  at.  That  watered  piece  of  yours  will 
look  good  to  a  man  who  don't  understand  dry  farm- 
in*.  I  wouldn't  run  no  risk  if  I  was  you.  I'd 
bring  a  tent  along  down." 

"I'll  do  that,"  I  said.  I  remembered  my  watch 
and  made  up  my  mind  to  hock  it  in  town  for  a  tent. 
Surely  I  could  get  a  tent  for  it.  Then  the  steady 
blue-gray  eyes  of  the  cattleman  who  had  put  the 
Lattig-mother  responsibility  on  me,  came  back  and 
I  felt  cheered.  If  I  could  do  nothing  else  I  would 
appeal  to  him,  to  the  man  who  had  said  that  young 
men  were  an  asset. 

Every  one  was  working  full  blast  and  every  horse 
in  our  settlement  was  in  use  so  it  was  a  waste  of 


100  Happy  Valley 

time  to  attempt  to  borrow  a  mount.  I  hiked  it, 
Mother  Lattig  providing  a  generous  lunch.  I  had 
never  told  her  how  short  of  money  I  was,  and  with 
her  countrymen  a  one  hundred  mile  hike  was  not 
unusual.  She  gave  me  just  one  commission.  I 
think  it  had  to  do  with  the  welcoming  of  the  Dutch 
baby,  an  event  she  was  looking  forward  to  with 
the  keenest  interest  —  "  a  leetle  babee  in  Happy  Val 
ley— Ah  God!" 

Van  Vader  gave  me  a  hearty  welcome.  "Well, 
now,  you've  got  some  tan,  and  some  flesh's  managed 
to  stick  to  your  ribs,"  he  said,  scarcely  disturbing 
his  knuckles. 

"But  I'm  as  poor  as  ever/'  I  returned,  drawing 
up  a  chair.  "  Mr.  Vader,  help  me  out.  Who  can  I 
hock  this  watch  to  for  some  cash?" 

"What you  need o' cash, homesteadin' ?     Grub?" 

"  No,  not  grub ;  but  a  cabin,  you  know,  or  a  tent ; 
and  a  bed  and  a  chair  and  stove  —  you  know,  the 
usual  thing.  Mr.  Vader,  what  about  Mr.  Regan? 
Do  you  suppose  he  would  lend  me  fifty  dollars  on 
my  watch  ?  " 

"  He's  Uncle  John  to  most  every  one  hereabouts, 
but  I  do'  know  as  I  ever  heard  of  his  lendin'  money 
on  personal  effects." 

"  Is  there  any  one  else  you  can  suggest  ?  " 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  101 

"I  gotta  first-rate  tent  out  back,  ain't  doiir 
nothin,' — and  a  camp  stove  that  you're  plumb  wel 
come  to.  You  can  return  it  when  you  get  your 
cabin  built." 

"  Mr.  Vader,  did  you  ever  hear  of  a  thing  called 
self  respect?  Do  you  want  to  take  mine  entirely 
away?" 

"  We're  needin'  settlers.  It's  just  as  John  Regan 
said;  he'd  sa^r  to  give  you  the  outfit,  and  you  keep 
the  watch;  I'd  not  get  mixed  up  with  any  cash  if  I 
was  you.  I'd  just  keep  the  watch." 

"  And  continue  stacking  up  a  board  bill  with  you," 
I  added.  I  felt  resentful.  Why  wouldn't  Vader  let 
me  hock  my  watch  ?  I  knew,  under  it  all,  his  idea, 
and  I  resented  his  lack  of  faith.  Without  cash  a 
man  can  not  very  well  drink.  Already  the  fumes 
of  liquor  from  the  bar  room  were  stealing  over  my 
senses.  Already  the  Lattig  cabin,  the  plateau  ranch, 
the  little  Tenttown  settlement  seemed  far  away, 
misty,  and  unreal. 

I  left  the  hotel  and  went  up  to  the  Court  House 
to  look  up  the  County  Superintendent  of  Schools 
and  find  out  about  the  examinations.  They  would 
begin  the  following  morning  and  last  for  three  days. 
On  my  return  to  the  hotel  I  met  Bullpit,  brushed 
and  shining,  and  smelling  of  perfume  and  whiskey.  I 
sat  down  opposite  Van  Vader,  and  Bullpit  joined  us. 


102  Happy  Valley 


"  Have  something  on  it,"  he  invited,  nodding  to 
ward  the  door  across  which  was  scrawled  in  curlicues 
the  word  "  Bar,"  "  just  to  show  there's  no  bad  feel 
ings.  We're  after  the  same  job,  Van,  and  the  best 
man  gets  it.  Neat  little  contest  Pa  Clark's  pulling 
off  between  his  favorite  sons.  Come,  have  some 
thing,  Brent." 

I  shook  my  head;  at  the  same  time  I  felt  like  a 
fool  —  clinging  to  Van  Vader  as  to  a  l:fe  line.  Was 
I  a  man  or  a  baby  that  I  couldn't  stand  on  my  own 
feet! 

Van  Vader  said  nothing.  Bullpit  drew  up  a 
chair.  Our  feet  all  pointed  toward  the  rusty  red, 
cracked  stove,  the  target  for  many  chews.  I  sud 
denly  got  up,  but  there  was  no  place  to  go.  I  could 
walk  the  length  of  the  one  main  street  of  the  little 
gray  cattle  town  and  pass  the  swinging  doors  of  five 
saloons  and  three  hotels,  each  with  a  bar.  There 
was  no  club,  no  loafing  place,  nothing  but  the  empty, 
dusty  street  and  the  limitless  gray  plains.  I  went 
to  the  door.  A  huge  wall  of  dust  cut  off  distance 
• — a  wind  storm  was  rising.  I  turned  back  to  the 
stove.  It  was  now  three  o'clock.  It  would  be  nine 
before  I  could  with  any  sort  of  reason  go  to  bed.  I 
wondered  if  there  was  a  public  library  where  I  might 
read  away  the  afternoon. 

I  went  out  into  the  howling  wind,  the  door  bang- 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  103 

ing  behind  me,  and  ducking  my  head  and  holding 
fast  to  my  coat,  pushed  down  the  street.  The  loaf 
ers  were  all  in  doors,  the  post-office  was  full  of  men 
waiting  for  the  daily  stage.  I  was  not  interested 
in  the  mail.  Ennis'  letters  usually  filled  me  with 
uneasiness  even  before  I  broke  the  seal ;  and  though 
I  tried  to  tell  her  about  ranching  and  the  ranch 
people  in  a  way  that  would  interest  her,  I  never  felt 
that  she  understood  or  was  in  the  least  interested. 
She  was  interested  in  me  —  I  was  her  brother  — 
but  not  in  my  way  of  living.  I  saw  a  newspaper 
office  —  I  would  try  that.  A  foreman  was  busily 
sorting  type  before  a  hand  press.  I  asked  for  the 
editor;  he  jerked  his  head  toward  a  door.  I  pushed 
it  open.  The  editor  sat  at  a  desk,  writing  —  a  thin, 
nervous,  wiry  man  of  middle  age,  with  a  long  red 
dish  mustache  streaked  with  gray.  He  looked  up 
and  I  liked  his  face. 

"  I'm  looking  for  something  to  read,"  I  said.  "  I 
wondered  if  there  was  a  public  library  in  town."  I 
picked  up  a  newspaper.  "This  will  do,  if  I  may 
loaf  here  awhile." 

"Make  yourself  at  home.  Let's  see,  you're 
Brent,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  homesteading  in  Happy  Valley.  I'm  here 
to  take  the  school  examinations.  I'll  be  glad  when 
they're  over  and  I  can  pull  out." 


104  Happy  Valley 

"  I'd  like  to  do  that  myself,  get  away  on  a  ranch 
for  a  while.  Any  news  from  Happy?  We're  just 
about  to  go  to  press." 

I  told  him  of  our  new  settlers  and  the  plan  for  a 
school  to  begin  in  September.  He  wrote. 

"You're  to  teach  it?" 

"  Don't  put  that  in,"  I  hastened  to  say,  "I  hope  to 
teach  it.  The  teacher  is  not  yet  elected." 

The  office  was  restful;  the  editor  was  a  man  of 
education,  a  gentleman.  His  atmosphere  radiated 
that.  I  sat  on,  while  he  wrote,  and  read  every  line 
of  the  little  sheet,  including  an  ad  of  Van  Vader's 
in  which  he  maintained  that  he  served  good  "  clean  " 
meals.  At  length  the  editor  carried  his  stuff  in  to 
the  foreman. 

"  That's  done  for  a  week,"  he  said,  returning  with 
an  air  of  relief.  I  wondered  how  so  small  a  paper 
could  be  so  great  a  burden.  I  spoke  of  John  Regan 
—  the  loan  was  still  on  my  mind. 

"The  only  thing  against  John  Regan,"  said  the 
editor,  "  is  that  he  is  so  damned  good ;  but  he's  so 
damned  fine  you  can  overlook  that.  Come,  let's  get 
something  to  drink,"  he  added,  pulling  into  his  coat. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  couldn't  speak  plainly  to  this 
man  whom  I  liked  and  who  was  intelligent,  about 
the  effect  of  liquor  on  me.  I  dissembled.  I  ran  my 
hand  into  my  pocket  and  drew  out  several  dimes  and 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  105 

nickels.  "  My  entire  cash  fortune,"  I  said.  "  Fm 
not  spending  money." 

"It's  on  me,"  returned  the  editor.  "What's  a 
drink  more  or  less?  It'll  be  on  you  next  time, 
perhaps." 

I  liked  the  man,  and  I  was  terribly  lonesome. 
The  thought  of  his  closing  that  office  and  setting  me 
adrift  again  in  the  dilapidated  town  with  Bullpit 
haunting  my  trail  was  more  than  I  could  face.  I 
wanted  to  stay  with  the  editor  who  some  way 
harmonized.  He  was  real  company;  I  went  with 
him. 

Any  man  cursed  with  a  craving  for  liquor  will 
understand  what  followed.  I  don't  expect  sympa 
thy —  only  understanding.  The  editor  was  of  my 
class  in  more  ways  than  one,  unfortunately  for  him. 
To  have  a  companion  of  like  nature  gave  a  diabolic 
luxuriance  to  the  abandon  to  drink.  He  told  me, 
half  drunk,  his  troubles,  chief  of  which  were  his 
sprees  between  issues  of  the  paper,  and  I  suppose 
I  told  him  mine.  And  then  we  would  have  another 
drink  on  it.  Had  it  only  been  some  one's  duty  to 
haul  us  out  and  chain  us  to  our  beds  —  but  no,  it 
could  not  have  been  done  after  the  first  drink.  Noth 
ing  could  have  saved  that  night.  I  don't  believe 
there  is  any  influence,  any  appeal  on  earth,  that  can 
hold  a  man's  lips  away  from  liquor  after  a  first 


106 


Happy  Valley 


glass — an  alcoholic's,  I  mean — until  he  is  soused 
and  stupefied  with  it. 

Four  days  later,  I  crawled  out  of  my  blankets  at 
Van  Vader's,  nauseated  and  exhausted.    Though  it 
was     scarcely     daylight     I 
dressed  and  dragged  out  to  the 
lobby.    Van  Vader  sat  there  in 
his  usual  attitude.     I  flung 
myself  down  in  a  chair  op 
posite. 

"Better    eat    somethin'," 
he    said.       "How'd 
an      egg,      poached 
tender,     and    some 
strong  coffee,  set?" 
I   suppose    I   was 
a  maudlin  fool.    His 
Van  Vader  patience —something 

—  I     don't    know 

what  —  but  any  way,   the  tears  rolled  down  my 
cheeks.    I  could  not  control  them. 

"Shoot   me,    don't    feed   me,"  I  said,  bitterly. 

'''  Take  your  gun  and  shoot  me." 

But  already  he  was  ambling  toward  the  kitchen. 

The  large  fly-specked  calendar  on  the  wall  marked 

this  day  as  the  first  of  September.     I  had  lost  my 

claim — that  is,  if  any  one  wanted  to  make  me  lose 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  107 

it.  I  had  not  established  residence,  and  further 
more,  had  I  the  time,  I  could  not  now  establish  resi 
dence,  for  during  that  idiotic  four-days'  spree  my 
watch  had  gone,  and  I  had  in  its  place  only  an  old 
gun  that  I  had  acquired,  I  know  not  how.  I  hadn't 
the  nerve  to  accept  Van  Vader's  tent,  and  I  had  no 
way  of  getting  it  down  to  the  ranch  should  I  take  it. 
My  plan  to  raise  money  on  my  watch  had  included 
hiring  a  pack  animal.  But  I  now  had  nothing  to 
pawn,  no  resources. 

But  as  I  ate  Van  Vader's  egg,  "done  tender,"  I 
began  to  come  out  of  the  blackness,  and  to  wonder  if 
there  wasn't  even  yet  some  way.  I  remembered 
the  lean-to  of  Mother  Lattig's  cabin.  We  had  un 
joined  it,  meaning  to  move  it  over  to  the  new  cabin, 
but  we  had  not  finished  the  job.  I  knew  if  I  told 
the  old  lady  of  my  predicament,  she  would  permit 
me  to  haul  the  lean-to  over  to  my  ranch,  and  this 
would  meet  Uncle  Sam's  requirements  for  the  pres 
ent.  If,  then,  I  could  only  get  back  to  my  ranch,  I 
could  manage  to  save  it.  I  wanted  a  drink  from 
my  spring.  More  than  anything  on  earth  I  wanted 
to  lie  flat  and  drink  till  I  was  full  of  clear,  cold,  pure 
spring  water;  to  drink  for  days.  As  thirsty  as  I 
had  been  for  liquor,  I  was  still  more  thirsty  now 
for  my  spring.  I  must  go  at  once.  I  thought  of 
the  two  days'  walk;  no,  I  was  not  up  to  it,  and 


108  Happy  Valley 

besides,  some  one  might  get  my  ranch;  I  knew 
Bullpit  was  watching  it.  No  doubt  he  had  a  man 
ready  to  do  the  jumping.  The  thought  of  Bullpit 
aroused  me  to  words. 

"Bullpit  about?"  I  asked  Van  Vader. 

"Left  this  mornin',  'bout  two  a.  m.,  he  and  an 
other  party  and  a  pack  mule  —  two  hours  on  the 
road  now." 

I  sprang  up.     "  Who  was  the  other  man  ?  " 

"A  newcomer  in  these  parts;  dark,  with  waxy 
skin  and  yellow  in  the  whites  of  his  eyes." 

"  For  God's  sake,  Van,  let  me  have  Sol.  I'll  get 
him  back  to  you  if  I  have  to  bring  him  in  and  walk 
back  to  Happy  Valley.  Lend  me  old  Sol !  " 

He  gestured  toward  the  front  of  the  hotel.  "  He's 
waitin'.  I  'lowed  you'd  be  wantin'  to  get  back  to 
the  ranch." 

"Van  Vader,  how  can  I  ever  —  "  I  couldn't  fin 
ish  it ;  I  held  out  my  hand. 

"  He's  oily  from  not  bein'  rode  none.  He'll  stand 
some  pretty  hard  ridin',"  he  said,  mildly,  and  as  I 
went  through  the  lobby  like  a  streak,  he  sank  again 
into  his  chair  to  await  later  breakfasters. 

I  mounted  Sol  and  went  out  of  the  sleeping  town 
on  the  run.  Bullpit  and  his  man  were  after  my 
claim.  I  knew  it  as  well  as  if  I  had  been  told  it  in 
so  many  words.  It  would  mean  a  worth-while 


Drink  Does  Its  Work  109 

piece  of  money  to  Bullpit  to  put  a  man  on  my 
watered  land  with  forty  acres  cleared.  They  were 
after  my  spring,  my  butte,  my  high,  level  plateau 
that  looked  on  to  the  vast  valley  from  where  pic 
tures  came  and  faded,  came  and  faded.  They  were 
after  my  day  from  school,  my  long  day  of  hooky 
from  the  big  world-school  of  care  and  fever  and 
worry.  I  rode  madly,  pushing  poor  Sol,  who  was 
not  so  "oily"  as  he  might  have  been,  to  his  utmost. 
After  some  hours  of  this,  I  realized  that  I  could 
not  afford  to  kill  my  horse.  He  and  he  only 
could  get  me  there.  I  slowed  down.  And  then  I 
fell  back  on  the  comforting  fact  that  I  had  a  gun. 
I  was  in  a  mood  to  kill.  I  felt  murder,  a  desire  to 
murder,  rise  up  in  my  throat  like  a  gorge,  choking 
me.  I  wanted  to  kill  Bullpit  in  cold  blood,  kill  him 
with  my  own  hands.  I  examined  the  gun;  it  was 
loaded.  I  spurred  poor  Sol  and  rode  on  faster.  I 
must  get  him.  I  would  throw  the  man  off  my  ranch. 
I  would  not  give  it  up  —  my  ranch  —  my  spring  — 
my  butte  —  and  then  I  felt  weak  and  sick  and  the 
cold  sweat  broke  out  all  over  me.  I  knew  I  hadn't 
the  energy  to  run  a  dog  off  my  ranch. 

I  made  a  detour  through  Happy  Valley  by  the 
rim  rock  avoiding  Tenttown.  Poor  old  Sol  was 
equal  only  to  a  walk  now,  and  he  could  make  as 
good  time  through  the  sagebrush  as  by  the  road. 


110  Happy  Valley 

At  sunset  I  reached  my  butte.  From  the  extreme 
right  I  carefully  picked  my  way  along  its  length.  I 
was  feverish  and  dizzy.  I  had  just  one  idea,  to 
reach  my  spring,  then  my  gun.  A  long  deep  drink 
from  the  spring  and  I  knew  I  should  be  strong, 
strong  enough  to  shoot.  I  rode  around  the  nose  of 
the  butte,  and  stopped  abruptly.  Beside  the  spring 
was  a  tent,  newly  staked,  and  back  of  it  hung  a 
clothesline  from  which  depended  a  man's  washing 
—  overalls  and  shirts. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  LITTLE  HIRED  GIRL 

1  TURNED  quickly  back  to  the  right  of  the  butte 
for  I  did  not  want  to  be  seen.  I  was  weak  and 
trembling.  My  strength  had  endured  only  for  the 
ride.  I  knew  if  I  could  reach  the  spring  back  of 
the  tent  and  get  a  good  drink  my  hands  would  be 
come  steady,  steady  enough  to  shoot.  The  first 
thing  was  to  reach  the  spring.  The  claim  jumper 
might  not  recognize  me.  He  might  mistake  me  for 
some  thirsty  traveler. 

I  sprang  to  the  ground,  dropped  Sol's  bridle  over 
his  head,  then  walked  around  the  nose  of  the  butte 
and  approached  the  spring  from  the  rear  of  the  tent. 
I  lay  down  and  drank  long,  deep,  satisfying 
draughts.  I  rested  some  moments,  lifting  my  hand 
now  and  then  to  test  its  steadiness.  At  length  I 
felt  equal  to  the  undertaking.  My  hand  was  steady, 
my  feverishness  gone.  I  was  cool  and  sure  of  my 
self —  and  sure  of  my  purpose.  I  would  go  to  the 
tent  and  order  the  claim  jumper  off  the  ranch.  If 
he  resisted  I  would  shoot  him  down  like  a  dog. 

I  walked  quickly  to  the  tent,  and  seizing  the  flap, 
drew  it  back.  Just  within,  holding  a  rifle  to  her 

111 


112 Happy  Valley 

shoulder,  sat  Susie.     We  faced  each  other's  guns. 

"  Susie ! "  I  cried,  dropping  mine. 

"  Billy ! "  she  sobbed  out,  and  throwing  down  her 
rifle,  burst  into  crying.  I  took  her  in  my  arms  as 
I  might  have  Ennis  had  she  been  that  kind  of  a 
sister.  She  clung  to  me  and  sobbed  frantically.  Her 
tears  wet  my  dusty  shirt  front,  they  wet  my  skin. 
At  last  she  stopped  crying  and  feeling  in  all  her 
pockets  for  a  handkerchief  —  I  gave  her  mine  —  she 
mopped  her  face,  then  laughed. 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  glad  you've  come ! " 

"  But  what  does  it  mean  ?  Tell  me  what  you  have 
done,"  I  demanded. 

"Well,  when  you  didn't  come  yesterday,  and  it 
was  so  near  the  first,  I  got  scared  about  your  ranch ; 
so  this  morning  I  got  pa  to  help  me  take  down  my 
tent  and  we  brought  it  over  and  set  it  up  —  the  bed 
and  stove  and  everything  —  and  I  put  out  a  wash 
ing  to  make  it  look  like  real  homesteading,  then  I 
went  home.  After  lunch,  we  saw  Bullpit  go  past 
Tenttown  with  another  man  and  a  pack  horse,  and 
they  didn't  stop  to  see  us,  so  I  knew  they  were  up 
to  something. 

"I  told  pa  I  would  go  shoot  some  rabbits  for 
chicken  feed.  I  set  off  on  Baldy,  and  when  I  got 
here  they  were  examining  the  spring,  and  when  I 
dismounted  and  started  into  the  tent,  the  strange 


The  Little  Hired  Girl  113 

man  spoke  so  —  so  horrid  that  I  was  frightened.  I 
went  right  in  though,  and  Bullpit  came  and  said  this 
was  all  nonsense,  that  I  was  not  of  your  family  and 
was  just  wasting  my  time  —  that  I  couldn't  hold 
your  ranch  in  your  absence  —  and  —  and — then  I 
said  —  I  —  I  worked  for  you,  that  I  was  your  — 
hired  girl.  And  he  laughed  and  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed  some  more ;  and  the  man  said,  '  Pretty 
little  hired  girl,  won't  you  work  for  me?  Won't 
you  get  us  some  dinner?'  And  of  course  I  didn't 
have  anything  here  to  cook  and  they  knew  it  —  it 
was  a  catch  —  and  I  said  I  had  been  washing  and 
was  tired,  and  they'd  better  go  on  to  Mr.  Bullpit's 
ranch  as  maybe  he  had  some  food  there  though  he'd 
been  away  a  good  many  days. 

"Well,  they  left,  but  by  and  by  the  man  came 
back  alone;  and  he  came  blustering  up  to  the  tent, 
and  he  said,  '  See  here,  little  girl,  you  don't  want  to 
go  mixing  in  this  trouble,  and  there  may  be  trouble. 
You'd  better  saddle  up  and  ride  along  home.'  And 
I  was  so  mad,  I  flew  about  as  quick  as  a  flash  and 
grabbed  my  gun  before  I  thought — for  I  had 
brought  it  just  to  fool  pa,  and  I  said,  '  If  you're  so 
afraid  of  trouble,  you'd  better  run  along  yourself; 
we're  not  afraid  of  it,  we  pioneers.'  And  he  got 
white  and  mad,  but  he  went,  and  I've  been  sitting 
here  ever  since  —  and  —  and  when  I  heard  you  in 


Happy  Valley 


the  brush  I  thought  it  was  the  man  —  and  when  you 
went  to  the  spring  I  was  sure  of  it  —  and  when  you 
drew  back  the  flap  —  I  —  oh,  what  if  I  had  shot!" 

Some  way  I  couldn't  say  a  word.  I  could  only 
mechanically  pat  her  cheek,  and  stroke  her  fair  hair, 
for  inside  of  me  a  perfect  torrent  was  raging.  A 
girl  had  done  this  thing  for  me  —  me  —  and  what 
did  I  deserve  at  the  hands  of  any  girl  ! 

We  both  heard  steps  at  the  same  moment,  I  think, 
for  we  both  jumped  guiltily,  and  Susie  went  to  the 
stove  and  began  to  pile  in  sage  at  an  alarming  rate. 
I  remained  where  I  was.  A  big,  heavy,  hairy  hand 
pulled  back  the  tent  flap  and  a  man  stood  there,  a 
white,  waxy-skinned  man  with  bluish  lips,  big,  even 
teeth,  and  a  thin  black  mustache. 

"Well?"  I  said,  and  my  hand  went  to  my  hip. 

He  smiled  sneeringly. 

I  stepped  nearer  him.  "  Susie,  my  —  my  hired 
girl,  has  told  me  of  your  visit.  It  is  rather  irregu 
lar  down  here.  We  are  peace-loving  people.  I 
think  you  will  like  the  climate  better  farther  south, 
and  possibly  there  are  other  springs.  I  think,"  I 
repeated,  and  pulled  my  gun  on  him,  "  you  will  like 
the  climate  farther  south  !  " 

I  was  perfectly  steady  now  and  strong.  I  looked 
steadily  into  his  evil,  black  eyes,  and  noted  that  the 
whites  had  a  yellowish  hue.  Everything  about  him 


The  Little  Hired  Girl  115 

was  waxen  and  yellowish.  His  eyes  fell  before  mine, 
he  turned  a  shade  paler,  and  backed  away  under  my 
gun  to  where  his  horse  stood  grazing.  When  he 
had  mounted  and  spurred  his  horse,  I  returned  to 
the  tent. 

"  Now,  Susie,"  I  said,  assuming  command,  "  you 
had  better  ride  home  right  away.  And  what  I  think 
of  all  this  —  what  I  think  of  you  —  what  all  this 
means  to  me  —  Susie,  some  day  I  may  be  able  to  tell 
you.  But  if  you  had  just  pulled  a  man  bodily  out  of 
a  boggy  marsh,  and  helped  him  plant  his  feet  once 
more  on  solid  earth,  you  wouldn't  have  come  any 
nearer  saving  a  life  than  you  have  —  today." 

"  Why,  Billy,  I  only  saved  your  ranch ! "  she  came 
back  blithely,  her  attack  of  nerves  completely  gone. 
She  began  to  pin  on  her  hat.  The  little  blue  bows 
above  her  ears  were  so  very  pale  now  —  and  I  had 
not  so  much  as  brought  her  a  ribbon  from  town! 
Oh,  I  was  in  the  depths  —  and  I  was  in  the  clouds ! 

She  rode  off,  singing  an  air  I  had  heard  many 
times  from  the  one  unscratched  record  in  Happy 
Valley: 

Some  one  to  love  and  cheer  you, 
Sometimes  when  things  go  wrong; 

Some  one  to  snuggle  near  you, 
Some  one  to  share  your  song. 

Just  some  one. 


CHAPTER  X 
GOOD  NEWS! 

WHEN  I  heard  that  Bullpit  was  to  teach  the 
school,  naturally  I  was  not  surprised.  Nei 
ther  was  I  surprised  to  learn  shortly  after  that  the 
story  of  my  spree  had  gone  the  rounds  of  our  set 
tlement.  I  knew  that  it  must,  and  I  nerved  myself 
to  face  it.  I  dreaded  it,  and  yet  a  strange  peace  had 
fallen  upon  me.  I  was  back  on  my  ranch  —  I  had 
my  spring.  And  Mother  Lattig,  with  much  volu 
bility,  many  tears  and  deep  convulsive  laughter  over 
the  story  of  Susie's  stand  against  the  claim  jumper, 
had  boxed  my  ears  because  I  had  not  let  her  know 
that  I  was  broke,  and  told  me  to  take  the  lean-to 
and  welcome.  Ed  helped  me  with  a  team  and  I 
soon  had  a  cabin  on  my  ranch  that  met  Uncle  Sam's 
requirements.  Susie's  tent  went  back  home  and  in 
a  few  days  everything  was  once  more  moving  along 
regularly.  It  was  this  sense  of  relief,  this  tremen 
dous  let  down  which  resulted  from  a  feeling  of 
security  about  my  ranch  that  took  the  edge  off  the 
other  evil,  the  knowledge  that  they  must  all  know. 
I  remained  away  from  Tenttown,  and  spent  my  time 

116 


Good  News  117 


helping  Mother  Lattig  with  her  plowing.  She 
rented  a  team  from  Mr.  Clark,  and  we  plowed  stead 
ily  for  a  week,  and  I  was  happy  —  almost.  I  even 
wished  the  blow  would  fall  and  I  could  have  it  over. 
When  it  did  fall  it  was  in  a  most  unexpected 
manner. 

Clark  and  Bullpit  were  in  the  schoolhouse  taking 
a  last  look  at  the  desks  and  benches.  Our  old  man 
wanted  to  make  sure  there  were  enough  low  ones 
for  the  little  tots,  and,  in  case  there  were  any  too 
small  for  even  the  smaller  benches,  he  was  making 

a   few   footstools.     He  had  insisted  on  the  win- 

t 

dows  being  set  low  so  the  littlest  pupil  could  see 
out. 

"  These  houses/'  he  had  said  when  we  were  build 
ing  the  cabin,  "where  the  windows  are  high  don't 
take  no  count  o'  the  children.  I  won't  build  a  house 
that  I  can't  put  the  windows  down  low.  Ever  see 
a  little  shaver  with  his  fingers  clingin'  to  the  sill, 
tryin'  to  strain  his  little  self  up  so  he  can  see  out? 
See  that  once  and  you  won't  never  build  windows 
high,  not  for  nobody!" 

He  had  a  great  heart  for  the  children,  had  our 
old  man  —  or  better,  a  great  heart  for  humanity. 
Well,  on  this  day  he  and  Bullpit  were  looking  the 
place  over,  and  he  was  finishing  up  his  little  foot 
stools.  I  had  gone  into  the  other  cabin  for  some 


118  Happy  Valley 

tool  I  needed.  The  thin  boards  afforded  no  privacy 
for  conversation. 

"I'm  sorry  about  the  way  I  got  this  school," 
Bullpit  said  in  his  quick,  snappy  voice.  "  I  like  a 
good  fight.  I'd  rather  have  seen  Brent  jump  in  and 
make  it  hard  for  me  to  win." 

"So  —  so,"  our  old  man  said,  hammering  in  a 
nail. 

"Yes.  It's  a  shame  he  can't  keep  from  drink 
ing;  a  fine  fellow  but  for  drink." 

"So  —  so."    Another  nail  went  in  sharply. 

"  Yes,  didn't  you  hear  about  it  ?  You  see,  he  got 
in  with  Crimp,  editor  of  the  Herald,  and  from  all 
accounts  it  was  a  pair  of  'em.  A  shame  about 
Brent.  Didn't  come  near  the  examinations." 

More  nails,  sharply,  quickly. 

"  He  certainly  did  cut  some  ice  while  in  Two 
Forks,"  went  on  Bullpit.  "  Pawned  his  watch  to  a 
bartender  for  a  gun  and  some  cash  —  drank  up  the 
cash  —  " 

"But  kept  the  gun,  I  hear."  Quick,  sharp,  the 
nails  went  in.  "  Mighty  high-class  boy,  Billy ; 
drinks  high  class,  same's  everything  else  —  with 
high-class  folks;  Crimp  was  a  judge  once;  mighty 
high-class  man."  Bang,  bang,  bang,  the  little  stools 
were  catching  it. 

I  went  away  without  the  thing  I  had  wanted. 


Good  News  119 


I  climbed  to  the  top  of  my  butte  and  looked  across 
our  great  ocean  of  a  valley  with  its  glimmering 
white  specks  of  tents  and  its  tiny  patches  of  green, 
and  I  swore  by  all  that  was  holy,  by  all  that  I  loved 
—  and  all  at  once  I  changed  it  and  swore  by  the 
great  wide  valley  with  its  white  old  man  and  his 
white,  white  daughter  —  that  never  again,  so  help 
me,  should  a  drop  of  liquor  pass  my  lips.  I  came 
down  feeling  strengthened,  and  returned  to  Mother 
Lattig's  plowing. 

The  problem  of  a  school  was  settled,  but  the 
financial  problem  was  still  with  Tenttown  and  grow 
ing  more  knotty  every  day.  It  involved  other  tent 
ing  homesteaders  as  well,  who  had  not  rightly  fig 
ured  on  the  cost  of  getting  started  on  new  land,  and 
who  had  experienced  unforeseen  accidents  and 
delays  in  putting  in  a  garden.  The  homesteading 
law  would  permit  the  men  to  leave  home  to  find 
work,  but  to  hold  down  their  claims  the  women 
must  remain  upon  them.  No  one  had  wintered  in 
the  valley,  no  one  could  say  whether  or  not  the 
women  would  be  safe  and  comfortable  in  tents.  To 
find  work,  the  men  would  be  compelled  to  go  over 
two  hundred  miles  to  a  railroad,  entirely  out  of 
reach  of  their  families.  How  would  the  women 
get  supplies?  What  would  they  do  in  case  of 
illness?  Ed's  wife  was  expecting  another  addition 


120  Happy  Valley 

to  her  family,  and  he  was  unwilling  to  leave  her 
—  she  must  go  along.  Ed  was  really  of  less  value 
on  the  ranch  than  either  Mr.  Clark  or  Jirn,  being 
a  machinist  by  taste  as  well  as  trade.  He  had  been 
held  to  ranching  so  far  more  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  old  man  than  by  an  innate  love  of  the  soil. 

Whenever  the  discussion  came  up,  Ed  insisted 
that  he  was  the  logical  one  to  go  to  town  to  find 
work,  and  as  regularly  the  old  man  objected,  urging 
that  they  all  wait  a  little  longer.  He  seemed  bent 
on  holding  Ed  to  ranching.  Jim  took  to  it  like  a 
true  German.  Going  to  town,  a  privilege  to  Ed, 
would  be  a  punishment  to  Jim.  The  old  man  had 
no  worries  on  his  account.  I  think  the  base  of  the 
whole  matter  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  had  brought 
the  old  lady  in  on  the  promise  that  she  would  not 
again  be  separated  from  her  children.  Her  children 
were  her  very  life;  she  counted  nothing  a  hardship 
but  the  thought  of  separation  from  one  of  them.  If 
Ed  should  go  to  town,  his  wife  would  go  and  they 
would  lose  their  claim.  They  would  probably  not 
come  back.  The  old  lady  might  never  again  have 
this  daughter  with  her.  Our  old  man  was  set  on 
the  one  idea,  that  his  family  should  stay  together. 

Then  came  the  great  news.  We  had  a  system  of 
signals  in  our  valley  that  I  have  neglected  to  men 
tion.  If  one  were  in  danger  or  needed  help,  a  red 


Good  News  121 


flag  would  be  run  up;  if  good  news  came  affecting 
the  whole  valley,  or  mail,  a  white  flag.  One  after 
noon  late  in  September  I  saw  a  white  flag  wave 
bravely  from  the  Clark  compound.  I  set  out  at 
once  for  Tenttown,  only  stopping  on  the  way  to  tell 
Mother  Lattig  about  it.  She  had  seen  the  flag  and 
was  already  wildly  excited,  pacing  back  and  forth 
and  uttering  maledictions  against  herself  in  several 
languages  for  having  sold  all  her  horses.  She 
wanted  to  go;  she  pushed  me  frantically  away, 
hanging  on  to  my  coat  at  the  same  time,  beseeching 
me  to  hurry  back,  as  it  might  be  news  from  her  son 
or  a  letter  from  her  daughter,  whose  husband  ran 
a  small  East-side  restaurant  in  New  York,  and  who 
had  promised  to  come  West. 

I  found  our  old  man  in  an  equal  state  of  excite 
ment,  while  Mother  Clark's  eyes  were  lighted  up 
with  hope.  The  younger  women  were  in  gay  spirits, 
and  their  husbands  looked  as  if  a  will  had  just  been 
read,  in  which  they  were  handsomely  remembered. 
Susie  was  perched  on  a  barrel  end  with  a  great  mail 
order  catalog  on  her  knee  and  a  pencil  in  her  hand. 
Her  fair,  white  brow  was  screwed  into  a  frown,  for 
she  was  engaged  in  that  most  fascinating  occupation 
to  women  homesteaders,  catalog  shopping.  By  the 
hour  she  and  Leeda  "  shopped  "  in  this  fashion.  As 
I  joined  her  she  smiled  gaily,  and  declared  that  she 


122  Happy  Valley 


was  really  going  to  send  off  an  order  this  time.  She 
kicked  her  pretty  feet  happily  against  the  barrel, 
and  bent  again  to  her  delightful  task. 

Other  neighbors  had  gathered  in,  old  What's-in- 
it-for-me  gloomier  than  ever  and  working  his  jaw 
hard,  the  Book- farmer  studiously  serious,  and  sev 
eral  newcomers  who  had  located  east  of  the  Clarks, 
silently  curious.  One  was  a  powerful  giant  of  a 
man,  a  Dane  who  might  have  stepped  off  a  Viking's 
ship.  Others  were  foreigners  less  unusual  in 
appearance. 

Clark  held  back  his  big  news  till  all  had  arrived. 
Then  he  waved  overhead  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  every 
one  gave  attention;  even  old  What's-in-it-for-me 
stopped  his  chewing. 

"It's  work,"  he  choked  out,  his  voice  breaking 
with  exultation.  "Work  for  every  man  jack  of 
us,  and  right  here  at  home,  or  next  thing  to  it." 
Then  he  explained :  John  Regan,  the  stockman 
who  had  put  the  Lattig-mother  responsibility  on  me, 
was  to  begin  at  once  digging  a  canal  through  the 
Q  Ranch  to  drain  the  tule  swamps  and  irrigate  the 
arid  acres.  He  would  need  wood  to  operate  the 
dredger,  thousands  of  cords.  Work  would  last  four 
years,  possibly  longer.  Clark  was  authorized  to  act 
as  foreman,  and  organize  a  wood-cutting  crew. 
Regan  would  pay  five  dollars  a  cord. 


Good  News 


123 


When  he  finished  telling  about  it,  stammering 
over  his  words  in  his  excitement,  he  tossed  his  old 
rag  of  a  cap  in  the  air  and  shouted,  "  Three  cheers 
for  Uncle  John,"  and  we  all  took  it  up,  the  Dutch 
man,  the  Dane,  the  Swedes, 
the  Bostonian,  the  Philadel- 
phian,  the  Westerners  — 
and  the  women  more  lus 
tily  than  the  men.  Every 
one  was  grinning,  everyone 
save  old  Sol  Sneed,  who, 
gloomier  than  ever,  re 
sumed  his  chewing,  and  the 
Book- farmer,  who  seemed 
searching  his  mind  for  a 
precedent  for  this  pecul 
iar  manner  of  employing  labor.  One  man  T 
noticed  in  the  outskirts  of  the  group  whom  I  was 
sorry  to  see  there,  the  waxen- faced  claim  jumper 
who  had  gone  farther  south  to  look  for  land. 

Sol  Sneed  grumbled  to  Clark  as  he  started  to 
ward  his  horse,  "  I  can't  see  what's  in  it  for  me ; 
I  can't  leave  my  store,  I  can't  go  to  work  at  my 
age." 

"Why,  man  alive,  there's  everything  in  it  for 
you,"  cried  our  ecstatic  old  man,  too  happy  to  be 
irritated.  "  Won't  you  sell  more  supplies  ?  Won't 


Sol  Sneed 


124  Happy  Valley 

there  be  money  in  the  country?  Won't  all  the  set 
tlers  be  prosperous?  Diggin'  a  ditch  twenty-five 
miles  long  to  reclaim  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand  acres  of  land  —  won't  that  bring  in  more  set 
tlers  ?  Do  you  think  Uncle  John's  diggin'  this  here 
ditch  of  his  just  because  water'll  look  pretty  in  the 
desert?  Don't  you  see  that  one  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  acres  of  drained  tule  swamp  and  irrigated 
sagebrush  will  mean  a  thousand  or  more  settlers 
with  money  to  buy  this  land?  And  it  all  a  layin' 
just  over  Wind  Mountain  there,  not  fifteen  miles 
from  the  heart  of  our  valley.  Oh,  man,  but  I 
knowed  it.  I  knowed  all  along  that  somethin  like 
this  was  just  bound  to  happen  to  a  big,  new,  raw 
country  that  nobody  hadn't  never  touched  yet,  and 
Uncle  John's  a  doin'  it.  Oh,  but  the  fine  sunrises 
we'll  see  over  our  valley  wavin'  in  wheat.  Oh,  but 
things  is  happenin'  quick,  mighty  quick ! " 

Sol  Sneed  rode  away,  still  working  his  lantern 
jaw.  He  couldn't  see  anything  in  it  for  him. 

I  think  I  was  the  first  to  sign  up  with  our  old 
man.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do,"  I  said,  "  but 
I'm  in  for  it." 

"The  wood  choppin'  will  be  in  your  line,  Billy," 
he  said,  in  a  mild,  half -apologetic  way.  "It  smells 
right  sweet,  cuttin'  juniper  up  in  the  hills.  It  smells 
right  sweet,  and  the  juniper  is  fair  easy.  You  just 


Good  News  125 


cut  along  with  Ed  and  Jim  and  me.  Our  teams  will 
do  the  haulin'  and  you  cut." 

A  day  or  so  later  our  old  man  rode  over  to  see 
me.  He  was  leading  a  horse.  He  had  stopped  to 
take  a  look  at  the  school,  for  it  had  been  running  a 
week  now,  with  Susie,  three  of  her  nephews,  four 
Dutchies,  two  Danes,  and  a  Swede  composing  the 
student  body.  He  came  on  to  my  ranch  where  I 
was  busy  grubbing,  and  pausing,  looked  back  toward 
the  little  schoolhouse. 

"  We'll  have  a  bell,"  he  said.  "  One  you  can  hear 
ten  miles  away.  Won't  that  be  some  sound  to  hear 
a  school  bell  peal  right  out  in  Happy  Valley? "  His 
eyes  gleamed. 

No  wonder  our  old  man  was  not  rich.  His 
vision  had  never  included  stacking  up  gold.  I 
am  sorry  to  admit  that  I  was  not  jubilant  over  the 
development  of  the  valley.  It  was  coming,  but — 
well,  I  loved  our  isolation,  our  out-of-touchness  with 
civilized  life.  However,  I  said  nothing,  and  he 
went  on  talking,  throwing  one  leg  over  the  saddle 
horn  and  hunching  to  one  side  in  the  plainsman's 
resting  habit  when  mounted.  "We're  all  goin'  to 
be  in  funds  now,  and  work  will  bring  in  other 
settlers;  pretty  quick  —  you  see,  I've  pioneered 
Texas  and  Oklahoma  —  there  won't  be  any  vacant 
land  left  in  Happy  Valley.  We're  all  entitled  to  a 


126 Happy  Valley 

desert  claim  apiece.  I  think  it'd  be  a  right  good  idea 
for  all  of  us  to  make  a  desert  film'  before  we  get  so 
busy  choppin'  wood  we  won't  have  time  to  look  up 
the  land  or  go  to  Two  Forks  to  file." 

"I  really  don't  believe  I  can  handle  more  than 
I've  got,  Mr.  Clark/'  I  said.  "I  would  like  to 
improve  my  place,  fence  it  and  get  in  a  crop.  I 
don't  believe  I  ought  to  tackle  a  desert  claim." 

"  Billy,  the  land  will  be  worth  a  good  many  crops ; 
better  come  along  with  me  and  look  it  over." 

The  result  was  that  I  filed  on  three  hundred  and 
twenty  acres  that  lay  a  good  fifteen  miles  farther 
south,  the  old  man  putting  up  the  filing  fee,  the 
same  to  be  returned  to  him  out  of  my  first  wages  as 
a  wood  chopper.  I  hadn't  wanted  any  more  land, 
and  I  had  a  feeling  that  I  was  being  managed,  being 
got  into  it,  on  some  idea  of  his  that  it  was  good  for 
me  to  have  all  the  responsibility  I  could  stagger 
under.  After  I  had  filed,  I  was  glad  he  had  com 
pelled  me  to  do  so.  I  certainly  did  have  a  feeling 
of  greater  interest  in  the  valley.  It  gives  a  man  a 
queer,  new,  self-important  sensation,  this  matter  of 
acquiring  land.  It  grows  on  him  and  he  wants  to 
get  more  and  more.  Clark  and  each  of  his  sons-in« 
law  filed  on  desert  claims,  the  old  man  urging  the 
boys  on  with,  "  It  won't  never  be  no  cheaper."  It 
would  keep  us  strapped  to  prove  up  on  these  claims, 


Good  News  127 


for  wells  must  be  dug  and  the  land  watered.  Did 
our  old  man  think  it  was  good  for  all  of  us  to  be 
pretty  well  strapped  down  to  the  country?  What 
ever  he  thought,  he  had  his  way  with  us. 


CHAPTER  XI 

BAD   NEWS 

WE  established  camp  in  the  juniper  woods,  the 
dwarfed,  scraggy  timber  of  the  lower  moun 
tain  sides,  twenty  miles  from  Tenttown.  Ed  was 
cook  for  our  division.  Every  man  in  Happy  Valley 
save  the  Dutchman,  the  Book- farmer  and  Sol  Sneed 
was  in  camp.  I  made  poor  time  at  the  beginning 
and  would  have  given  up  just  because  I  couldn't  see 
myself  making  wages,  but  our  old  man  was  patient 
and  kept  me  at  it. 

All  day  he  whistled  or  sang,  and  all  day  he  kept 
us  steadily  chopping.  The  regular  swing  of  the  ax, 
the  rhythm  of  it  after  I  got  the  hang  of  the  thing, 
and  my  muscles  got  over  being  sore,  was  exhilarat 
ing.  These  healthy-minded,  eager  men,  happy 
through  and  through  over  a  "  job,"  a  chance  to  stay 
on  their  ranches  and  make  them  profitable,  were 
inspiring  companions.  And  really  this  was  the  only 
apparently  insurmountable  obstacle  to  homestead- 
ing.  You  could  not  get  your  living  out  of  the  soil 
short  of  a  year,  and  if  you  had  no  money  to  feed 
your  body-engine  while  getting  your  ranch  under 

128 


Bad  News  129 


cultivation,  how  could  you  run  the  engine  ?  As  our 
old  man  said,  it  was  the  string  that  was  just  too 
short  to  reach  around  the  package.  It  couldn't  be 
stretched,  it  had  to  be  spliced,  and  Uncle  John,  as  he 
persisted  in  calling  Mr.  Regan,  had  come  along  just 
in  time  to  do  the  splicing. 

"  Oh,  but  I  knowed  it ! "  he  would  say  over  and 
over  again.  "You  can't  never  see  all  the  way  but 
with  the  eyes  of  faith.  I  knowed  it  all  along." 

The  real  genius  of  our  wood-chopping  brigade 
was  the  big  Dane.  He  never  wasted  a  breath  on 
anything  but  work.  He  was  up  with  the  first  "  sun- 
risers  "  and  his  ax  was  the  last  to  break  the  stillness 
at  night.  I  looked  on  his  pile  of  wood  and  mar 
velled.  To  have  an  arm  like  that,  muscles  of  marble 
and  tendons  of  steel !  His  body  was  a  perfectly 
constructed  machine  governed  by  a  mind  with  just 
one  idea  —  to  cut  wood.  A  blow  would  carry  a 
small  tree  half  off  its  stump;  another  completed  the 
felling.  Often  I  had  to  pause  and  watch  his  perfect 
work,  losing  strokes  myself,  but  I  would  more  than 
make  up  later  trying  to  make  his  time.  He  was  a 
prince  of  wood  choppers,  a  very  king  among  us. 

Only  once  during  the  first  month  did  I  see  him 
pause,  save  for  food  and  sleep.  The  Book- farmer 
rode  up  to  our  camp  evidently  on  an  important 
errand.  Every  one  stopped  chopping  to  greet  him, 


130  Happy  Valley 


every  one,  that  is,  save  the  great  Dane.  The  Book- 
farmer  greeted  us  but  rode  on  over  to  where  the 
blond  giant's  ax  was  in  the  air  on  its  descending 
stroke. 

"  Your  wife  has  twin  girls ! "  the  Book-farmer  in 
formed  him. 

The  ax  paused  on  its  downward  stroke.  "The 
hell ! "  Then  the  ax  came  on  down.  Chop,  chop, 
chop,  not  another  tremor  of  disturbance,  not  a  lost 
stroke. 

The  Book- farmer  came  back  to  the  rest  of  us, 
irritated  over  his  reception  by  the  Dane.  We  asked 
for  news  of  the  settlement.  Every  one  was  well,  it 
seemed.  The  school  —  he  believed  there  was  a  lit 
tle  trouble  over  discipline  at  the  school.  He  had 
heard  the  children  talking  some,  and  two  of  the 
Dane's  girls  had  passed  his  place  crying.  They 
couldn't  understand  English,  so  he  could  not  make 
out  the  trouble.  They  had  cried  harder  with  each 
question  he  put  to  them,  so  he  had  let  them  go  along, 
but  he  believed  the  teacher  had  whipped  the  smaller 
one.  Susie  was  staying  with  Mother  Lattig;  he 
had  not  seen  Susie;  he  did  not  know  her  version  of 
the  affair.  One  of  the  Dutchman's  children  had 
been  whipped,  too  —  one  of  the  smallest  ones. 
Maybe  they  needed  it;  still,  in  Boston  corporal 
punishment  — 


Bad  News  131 


And  here  Ed  broke  in  about  his  wife.  The  young 
est  child  had  had  a  cold  when  he  left.  Was  he  well 
now?  And  this  reminded  the  Bostonian  of  an 
other  thrilling  episode. 

"The  cattle  are  coming  down  from  the  hills  in 
large  bunches,"  he  said.  "It  seems  that  among 
them  there  are  bulls.  Your  dog  Jake  chased  a  big 
black  bull  into  your  tent  —  " 

"God!  man  —  was  my  wife  —  " 

The  Bostonian  regarded  the  interrupter  imper 
sonally.  "  The  dog  Jake,  as  I  was  about  to  say, 
bayed  the  bull  till  he  had  backed  into  your  tent.  I 
should  not  say  precisely  into  it,  but  his  hind  legs 
were  well  in.  Your  wife  was  within,  with  both 
children.  The  bull  was  at  the  front  of  the  tent,  next 
the  opening.  She  could  not  risk  going  out,  in  the 
face  of  a  mad,  bayed  bull,  and  she  dared  not  stay 
in,  for  any  moment  a  more  desperate  plunge,  a  fur 
ther  weakening  of  the  tent,  and  he  would  roll  bodily 
into  it,  and  she  would  be  at  the  animal's  mercy; 
so—" 

"Great  heavens,  man,  is  she  all  right?  What 
happened  ?  " 

The  Bostonian  looked  at  Ed  coldly. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  he  continued  with  extreme 
patience,  "she  dared  not  go  out  and  she  dared  not 
stay  in,  and  the  silly  beast  continued  to  bay  and  the 


132  Happy  Valley 

silly  bull  to  snort  and  bellow  and  plunge  about.  He 
was  a  monster  in  size,  and  indeed,  a  very  ugly  brute. 
So  with  rare  coolness,  I  should  say,  she  pushed  the 
babies  under  the  bed,  rolled  some  boxes  against  the 
bed  to  keep  them  there,  then  got  her  twenty-two, 
and  pulling  the  tent  up,  so  she  could  get  her  aim  true, 
shot  —  " 

"The  bull ?" 

"No,  the  dog.  It  stopped  his  baying  and  the 
bull  got  himself  loose.  Susie,  who  had  been  look 
ing  on  and  who  had  snapped  a  picture  of  the  en 
counter,  chased  the  animal  off.  She  was  under  the 
impression  that  your  wife  had  gone  to  Jim's  tent. 
She  had  not  realized  there  was  any  cause  for 
alarm." 

"  Did  you  see  my  babies  ?  Are  you  sure  Lil  is  all 
right?" 

"  Oh,  perfectly.  She  pulled  the  babies  out  from 
under  the  bed,  when  they  set  up  a  yell  over  being 
taken  away  from  a  bag  of  prunes  which  they 
had  found.  I  assure  you  they  are  perfectly  all 
right." 

He  rode  away,  precisely,  unsmiling,  as  he  had 
come.  Our  old  man  laughed  heartily  as  did  the  rest 
of  us,  all  but  the  Dane,  who  was  not  losing  a  stroke, 
and  Ed,  who  sat  on  a  fallen  juniper  tree,  his  shoul 
der  drooped,  his  hands  hanging  down  over  his  legs, 


Bad  News  133 


his  mouth  down  at  the  corners.  When  our  old  man 
saw  the  boy,  he  stopped  laughing. 

"Now,  Ed,  Lil's  all  right.  Don't  you  go  gettin' 
down  in  the  mouth.  Nothin'  will  happen  to  Lil. 
Why,  I  trained  that  girl  like  a  man.  She's  strong, 
Lil  is,  and  she's  resourceful;  showed  awful  good 
sense  shootin'  the  dog.  Couldn't  have  killed  the  bull 
without  a  straight  bead  between  his  eyes.  If  she 
had  wounded  him,  he'd  a  been  more  fightin'  mad 
and  the  fool  dog  would  a  kept  on  bayin';  mighty 
good  sense,  killin'  the  dog." 

"  It's  no  way  to  treat  women,  leaving  them  to  wild 
cattle.  It's  no  way  to  do."  Ed  was  plainly  in  the 
dumps. 

"  Now  see  here,  Ed,  it's  pioneerin'  right,  that's 
all.  If  you  don't  want  no  experience,  why,  don't 
pioneer.  There's  thousands  o'  folks  just  feedin' 
their  faces  and  keepin'  alive,  with  nothin'  interestin' 
a-happenin'  to  'em.  If  you  want  that  kind  of  a 
life,  there's  plenty  of  it.  It's  this  that's  scarce  — 
an'  fine!" 

Ed  got  up,  viciously  seized  his  ax,  and  went  to 
work.  I  was  sorry  for  Ed,  and  I  didn't  blame  him 
for  being  worried.  We  had  no  idea  of  breaking 
camp  until  the  snow  should  drive  us  out  of  the 
mountains.  The  plan  was  to  get  money  enough 
ahead  to  return  to  our  ranches  in  time  to  put  in 


134  Happy  Valley 

spring  crops.  Then  with  the  fall,  back  again  to  the 
woods. 

I  fell  to  wondering  about  Susie.  If  Bullpit  were 
having  trouble  with  his  discipline  there  must  be  ex 
citing  events  in  the  little  schoolhouse.  Susie  and 
Leeda  were  the  only  pupils  of  any  size.  I  could  see 
them  sitting  together  on  a  long  bench,  Susie  fresh 
and  crisp  in  a  white,  middy  blouse  with  her  little 
washed-out  ribbons  tied  into  perky,  if  faded,  bows, 
while  her  eyes,  that  some  way  Dame  Nature  had 
caught  down  so  fascinatingly  at  the  corners,  twin 
kled  with  amusement,  and  beside  her  the  stout, 
solemn-eyed  Leeda  in  her  red  cashmere  basque.  Did 
Bullpit  have  trouble  with  their  discipline  ?  I  would 
have  given  a  good  deal  for  a  look  in  at  the  school. 

It  was  the  end  of  November.  Snow  flurries  for 
some  days  had  warned  us  of  coming  winter.  I  had 
looked  at  the  Dane  and  wondered  how  he  kept  his 
level,  steady  stroke,  for  it  must  be  getting  cold  in 
the  valley,  too,  and  sagebrush  fires  are  tindery 
things,  and  a  tent  didn't  seem  to  me  much  protec 
tion  for  a  young  mother.  Had  he  no  thought  for 
the  woman  who  was  down  in  the  valley  alone  with 
his  babies?  Or  did  his  steadiness  show  a  better 
protectiveness  than  Ed's  flighty  and  moody  turns; 
for  Ed  had  not  got  over  his  protest,  He  was  evi 
dently  sick  of  pioneering.  The  food  was  tiresome; 


Bad  News  135 


the  work  uncongenial.  The  whole  thing  was  get- 
ing  on  his  nerves  —  Ed,  who  had  always  been  a  ma 
chinist  on  good  pay. 

Was  the  Dane,  who  chopped  like  a  perfect  ma 
chine,  doing  better  by  his  family  than  the  man  who 
fretted  and  stewed  and  diminished  his  earning 
power?  Ed  was  the  cook  of  our  camp,  and  cook 
ing,  too,  seemed  to  add  to  his  growing  discontent. 
We  had  no  variety  —  bacon,  potatoes,  camp  bread, 
prunes,  coffee.  No  butter,  no  milk,  no  eggs  —  our 
three  meals  were  almost  identical. 

The  old  man  said  to  me  one  evening,  "I  think  it 
might  not  be  a  bad  idea  for  you  to  ride  down  into 
the  valley  tomorrow,  and  see  if  everything  is  all 
right;  also  stay  a  night  on  your  ranch.  You  ain't 
got  anybody  holdin'  it  down  for  you — you're  the 
only  bachelor ;  maybe  you'd  better  go  sleep  a  night 
on  your  ranch.  The  little  government  agents,  they 
come  peekin'  around  some  times,  and  mebby  you'd 
better  ride  down." 

I  jumped  at  the  chance.  Goodness  knows,  I 
wanted  to  go  —  but  I  thought  of  poor  homesick  Ed. 
"Hadn't  Ed  better  go?"  I  suggested. 

"N-no,  Ed  ain't  in  no  condition  right  now  to  get 
loose  in  the  valley  with  money  in  his  pocket.  Ed 
would  be  for  beatin'  it  to  town,  and  Lil's  some  fool 
ish  over  Ed.  She'd  go  if  he  said  the  word." 


136  Happy  Valley 

I  was  surprised  at  one  feature  of  this;  our  old 
man  had  given  me  to  understand  that  he  was  hold 
ing  the  money  due  us  all  for  our  chopping.  Was 
he  then  holding  only  mine?  Was  I  still  the  one 
not  to  be  trusted  with  cash  and  a  horse?  I  felt 
suddenly  sick  at  heart;  in  these  months  of  hard 
work  I  had  come  to  feel  the  equal  of  these  men. 
The  old  man  saw  his  mistake  at  once.  "  Ed'd  may- 
be'll  have  to  go  to  town  for  supplies;  you  see  I'd 
have  to  let  him  have  his  money,  and  when  he  had 
money  and  a  team  —  why,  he'd  go.  Yes,  Ed'd  go. 
You'd  better  ride  down  in  the  morninV 

It  helped,  but  still  I  knew  the  old  man  didn't 
fully  trust  me.  However,  I  was  glad  of  a  chance  to 
get  away.  A  better  mood  came  as  I  wound  down 
into  Happy  Valley.  The  number  of  tents  had  in 
creased.  I  counted  at  least  five  new  ones,  scat 
tered  between  Tenttown  and  my  ranch.  Had  Bull- 
pit  been  the  locater  ?  I  rode  on,  wholly  at  ease,  the 
nippy  air  tingling  my  blood,  and  sending  it  bound 
ing  through  my  body. 

I  stopped  at  my  cabin,  and  looked  over  the  plateau, 
and  my  heart  warmed  to  it  afresh.  I  would  build 
a  stone  house,  as  soon  as  the  wood  chopping  ended, 
for  the  old  man  figured  we  would  have  a  month  or 
six  weeks  of  holiday  in  midwinter.  I  would  build 
a  stone  house  and  buy  a  good  cook  stove,  and  put 


Bad  News  137 


up  cupboards  and  shelves,  and  make  a  real  home 
of  it. 

I  stood  in  my  door  looking  over  the  valley  while 
plans  thronged  through  my  head.  I  would  send  for 
rabbit  wire  at  once.  That,  and  my  house  and  a 
well  on  my  desert  claim  would  take  every  cent  I 
would  make  by  chopping  wood  this  winter.  But 
the  coming  summer  I  could  put  in  a  crop;  then  in 
the  fall  more  wood  chopping.  The  prospect  looked 
delightful  to  me  —  and  just  over  the  way  was  the 
little  schoolhouse  and  Susie. 

I  closed  the  cabin  door  and  galloped  away  singing 
as  I  went.  As  I  approached  the  schoolhouse  it  oc 
curred  to  me  to  slip  up  and  take  a  look  at  Bullpit 
teaching  his  school,  at  Susie  and  Leeda  back  of  their 
books,  and  also  surprise  Mother  Lattig.  So  I 
stopped  some  distance  away,  dropped  the  bridle  over 
my  horse's  head,  and  crept  up  past  the  windowless 
side  of  the  house.  I  paused  to  listen.  An  alterca 
tion  was  going  on, —  I  went  on  to  where  I  could  see 
into  one  of  the  windows.  They  would  all  have  seen 
me  but  that  their  gaze  was  centered  on  an  affair  of 
vast  moment  inside. 

As  I  drew  near  I  saw  Bullpit  spring  up  from  his 
seat  back  of  the  desk  and  with  a  flash  of  temper, 
unhook  and  jerk  from  around  his  body  a  leather 
belt. 


138  Happy  Valley 

"I  think  we'll  make  you  understand  this  much 
Engleesh,  anyway,"  he  snapped  out,  and  the  younger 
Danish  girl  began  to  whimper.  He  had  imitated  the 
child's  way  of  speaking  "  English  "  in  an  ugly,  sneer 
ing  manner.  He  came  down  the  short  aisle  and 
raised  the  belt.  In  a  flash,  Susie  who  was  sitting 
at  the  back  of  the  room  beside  the  scared  and  stolid 
Leeda,  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"If  you're  going  to  whip  anyone  else,  you'd  better 
take  someone  your  size,"  she  threw  at  him,  her  eyes 
lowering  and  her  breath  coming  short.  "This  is 
the  third  time  you've  pounced  on  poor  little  Tita 
because  she  can't  understand  English.  You're  —  a 
-a  brute!" 

"Then,  my  dear  young  woman,  I  might  begin  on 
you."  He  spoke  playfully,  but  his  nostrils  quivered. 
His  temper  had  got  the  better  of  him. 

"  Try  it,"  dared  Susie,  advancing  in  the  aisle,  and 
turning  her  strong  young  shoulders  for  his  lash. 
He  lifted  the  belt,  and  brought  it  down  —  once. 
I  sprang  through  the  window  but  before  I  could 
reach  him  Susie  had  whirled  about,  seized  his  two 
thin  shoulders,  and  thrown  him  backward  to  the 
floor,  going  down  with  him,  and  raining  blows  on 
his  face.  I  snatched  her  away,  and  getting  the 
wretched  little  coward  by  the  collar,  dragged  him, 
choking,  kicking  and  tearing,  to  the  door,  pushed 


Bad  News  139 


him  down  the  steps  and  flung  him  out  into  the 
sagebrush.  Bullpit's  habitual  defence,  his  gun,  was 
lacking  on  this  day.  He  was  brave  only  when 
armed.  I  must  confess  that  it  was  not  especially 
to  my  credit  that  I  was  able  quickly  to  reduce  him 
to  a  state  of  non-resistance  —  he  had  neither  muscle 
nor  science;  and  also  I  must  confess  to  an  unholy 
joy  in  the  enterprize.  Whatever  the  thrashing  was 
to  do  for  Bullpit,  it  did  me  an  immense  amount  of 
good. 

Leaving  him  limp  in  the  dirt,  I  turned  back  to 
the  school  house.  The  children,  frightened  into 
silence,  were  bunched  in  the  doorway.  Only  Leeda 
could  speak  —  she  had  been  gazing  with  house 
wifely  disapproval  on  some  red  spots  on  the  floor. 
Bullpit's  nose  .had  bled  profusely:  "Oh,  Susie,  see 
what  you  went  and  done ! "  she  exclaimed. 

Susie  would  not  see.  Her  head  was  in  the  air 
and  her  eyes  were  snapping  fire.  At  my  suggestion 
the  children  gathered  up  their  books  and  lunch  pails 
and  set  out  for  home.  Susie  was  the  last  to  come 
out,  following  along  after  Leeda. 

"Oh,  Susie,  you  hadn't  oughta  started  it!"  re 
monstrated  her  solemn  friend. 

"  Shut  up !  Don't  I  know  it  without  you  telling 
me?  Spoiling  pa  —  pa's  school  —  and  him  — 
away ! " 


140  Happy  Valley 

I  joined  the  two  girls.  "  Don't  you  care,  Susie, 
the  term  is  nearly  over." 

"He's  a  —  a  beast!"  she  screamed,  her  anger 
again  rising.  She  was  so  worked  up  that  my  sud 
den  appearance  and  part  in  the  disturbance  had  not 
called  for  comment.  "He's  been  mean  to  those  little 
Danish  girls,  tormenting  them  because  they  can't 
understand  English,  all  along.  He  only  stopped 
because  Mother  Lattig  took  them  to  live  with  her 
to  save  them  the  long  walk,  and  for  company,  and 
he's  afraid  of  big  Mother  Lattig.  He  was  so  mean 
to  Leeda's  little  sisters  that  their  mother  took  them 
out.  He  always  picks  on  the  little  ones,  and  the 
foreign  ones  who  can't  understand.  And  he  was 
mean  to  you,  Leeda ;  you  know  very  well  he  was  the 
meanest  of  all  to  you.  He  tried  it  on  me,  too,  at 
first!" 

"Tried  what?"  I  suddenly  felt  hot  under  my 
collar.  "What  did  he  try,  Susie?"  I  demanded, 
sharply. 

"Oh,  nothing."  Her  face  was  red  and  she 
looked  away.  Leeda  blushed.  A  younger  girl  fol 
lowing  along  behind  piped  up,  "He  was  sweet  on 
Susie,  that's  what  he  was;  he  was  sweet  on  Susie 
and  when  he  showed  her  how  to  hold  her  pen,  he  put 
his  arm  around  her ;  he  was  sweet  on  Susie,  he  was 
sweet  on  Susie ! " 


Bad  News  141 


"  Shut  up,  you  little  brat ! "  screamed  the  exas 
perated  Susie.  The  child  stopped  for  a  moment, 
then  ran  on  ahead  with  the  other  little  children, 
sing-songing,  "  He  was  sweet  on  Susie,  and  Susie 
set  on  him;  he  was  sweet  —  " 

"Leeda,  can't  you-  stop  that  kid?"  Susie  de 
manded,  her  face  very  red. 

"  Well,  you  know,  Susie,  it's  the  truth ! "  blurted 
out  the  solemn  Leeda. 

I  hurried  ahead  to  the  little  Dutch  girl.  "  See 
here/'  I  said,  "  didn't  Susie  protect  you  all  from  a 
whipping?  Now  if  you  want  her  to  look  out  for 
you  in  the  future,  you'd  better  shut  right  up !  "  The 
child  collapsed,  and  I  went  back  to  the  two  girls. 

"And  Pa  was  so  proud  of  his  school,"  moaned 
Susie.  Then,  in  a  flash,  "  I  don't  care,  I  hate  him ! " 

Her  loyalty  to  her  father  was  having  a  hard 
struggle  with  her  rage  against  Bullpit,  which  had 
evidently  smouldered  for  many  weeks.  Also,  I 
found  that  she  and  Leeda  had  said  nothing  to  their 
respective  mothers  about  school  troubles,  not  want 
ing  to  worry  them,  and  hoping  things  would 
straighten  out  by  the  time  the  men  returned.  Ed 
had  been  right.  Pioneering  was  not  fair  to  the 
women. 

After  getting  Susie  restored  to  a  degree  of  her 
usual  calm,  I  turned  back.  Bullpit  must  leave  our 


142 Happy  Valley 

valley.  I  would  tell  him  so  in  no  uncertain  terms. 
He  had  laid  his  soiled  hands  on  these  two  young 
girls  —  and  he  would  have  to  go. 

When  I  reached  the  schoolhouse  he  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  I  hunted  up  Mother  Lattig;  she  had 
been  clearing  sage  brush  at  the  farther  extremity  of 
her  ranch  and  had  missed  the  excitement.  For  this 
she  blamed  me  in  a  volley  of  vituperation;  she  had 
no  love  for  the  Ratter.  "  Ah,  Billy,"  she  said,  "  I 
so  mad  at  heem  —  skunk  —  I  tink  I  bite  off  hees  ear 
myself!  You  kill  heem?  No?  Too  bad!"  To 
answer  all  her  questions  and  pacify  her  for  having 
missed  seeing  the  thrashing  consumed  considerable 
time.  When  I  finally  reached  Bullpit's  tent,  he  was 
not  there. 

He  did  not  show  up  the  following  morning.  I 
rode  down  the  valley  to  see  the  rest  of  the  settlers. 

One  real  calamity  had  befallen  the  women  which 
they  had  taken  care  to  conceal  from  the  men,  not 
wanting  to  worry  them.  A  heavy  frost  which  had 
come  immediately  following  our  departure  for  the 
juniper  woods  had  caught  the  root  crops.  In  their 
haste  to  begin  chopping  wood  the  men  had  had  no 
time  to  put  the  roots  away  in  pits.  The  task  had 
been  left  for  the  women.  The  frost  would  have 
come  just  the  same,  had  the  men  been  there,  for  this 
being  our  first  year  in  the  valley,  no  one  knew  when 


Bad  News  143 


to  expect  frost  and  no  one  was  prepared.  Still  the 
women  felt  responsible.  It  was  a  real  calamity. 
The  potatoes,  onions,  beets,  carrots  and  parsnips 
which  otherwise  would  have  formed  the  chief  diet 
all  winter  had  had  to  be  supplanted  by  the  monoto 
nous  fare  of  boiled  beans.  While  Mrs.  Clark  was 
telling  me  about  it  a  flock  of  wild  geese  flew  over 
head,  honking  their  way  south. 

"  And  we  don't  dare  shoot  one,"  she  said,  looking 
up.  She  shook  her  head,  lamenting.  "  Now  and 
then  this  winter,  Billy,  I've  been  a  real  law  breaker 
in  my  heart.  I've  been  willin'  to  shoot  them  for 
some  fresh  meat  for  Lil.  It's  been  hard  for  Lil  —  " 

"Why  didn't  you?"  I  demanded.  It  seemed  to 
me  the  maddest  thing  in  the  world  that  these  pio 
neers  could  not  use  all  that  the  country  had  to  offer 
in  their  fight  for  a  home.  The  geese  and  ducks 
passed  overhead  in  thousands,  only  to  be  shot  in 
another  state  where  the  game  laws  did  not  protect 
them. 

"It  was  Susie,  I  guess.  Susie's  our  best  shot, 
but  she  can't  bear  to  kill  anything.  She  can't  do  it. 
They  haunt  her,  nights,  she  says.  We  got  up  a 
jackrabbit  drive  once,  and  when  we  got  them  all  cor 
nered,  Susie  cried  so  we  had  to  let  'em  go.  They 
do  whine  and  look  up  at  you  like  babies.  She  can't 
even  kill  a  chicken." 


H4 Happy  Valley 

I  looked  about  —  where  were  the  chickens? 
Mother  Clark  had  had  a  dozen  thrifty  laying  hens 
in  the  fall. 

"  I  cooked  'em,"  she  explained,  "  for  Lil.  She's 
pullin'  through  right  well,  considerin'." 

The  idea  I  had  had  in  the  East  that  jack  rabbits 
could  be  made  to  supply  the  meat  item  of  a  home 
steader's  diet  was  erroneous.  The  rabbits  were  not 
healthy  —  they  were  "grubby"  —  and  no  rancher 
ate  them.  Sometimes  a  newcomer  tried  it,  but  never 
more  than  once. 

The  Dane  had  given  me  no  commission,  but  I 
rode  over  to  his  ranch  just  the  same.  Its  isolation, 
and  the  women  having  no  teams,  had  left  the  Dan 
ish  family  to  themselves.  I  had  found  the  two  little 
girls,  who  had  taken  Susie's  place  at  Mother  Lattig's 
to  save  them  the  long  walk,  excessively  white  and 
thin,  and  I  wondered  how  his  wife  was  faring. 
Since  the  advent  of  the  twins,  when  Mother  Lattig 
had  been  with  her,  no  one  had  seen  the  Dane's  wife. 
Rheumatism  was  keeping  Mother  Lattig  a  prisoner 
on  her  ranch. 

I  stopped  at  the  Dane's  tent  and  called,  but  there 
was  no  answer.  I  sprang  down  and  called  again. 
I  heard  a  faint  moan,  and  pushing  back  the  tent 
flap,  went  in.  There  lay  the  woman,  emaciated  to 
skin  and  bones,  and  beside  her  on  the  dirty  bed  the 


Bad  News  145 


babies  pulled  at  her  flabby  breasts.  I  spoke,  but  her 
eyes  opened  only  to  add  terror  to  her  weakness. 
She  could  understand  no  English.  I  could  get  no 
response  but  a  succession  of  weak  moans.  Her 
lips  were  blue  and  her  cheeks  sunken  under  high, 
prominent  bones.  I  never  saw  anything  so  ghastly, 
alive.  I  made  a  quick  survey  of  the  tent  and  found 
no  food  save  half  a  sack  of  potatoes  and  some 
salt.  The  answer  was  plain.  The  woman  was 
starving. 

I  galloped  to  Mother  Lattig's.  With  tears 
streaming  down  her  cheeks  and  amidst  a  volley  of 
prayers,  gutturally  intermingled  with  curses,  she  put 
up  a  pail  of  soup,  while  I  hitched  my  horse  to  the 
buckboard. 

The  woman  took  the  soup,  at  first  fearfully,  and 
after  a  few  spoonsful,  eagerly.  Then  I  lifted  her 
into  the  buckboard  and  carted  her  over  to  Mother 
Lattig's.  The  schoolhouse  was  turned  into  a  hos 
pital,  and  Susie  came  over  to  help. 

The  Book- farmer  set  off  to  the  Q  Ranch  to  'phone 
for  a  doctor,  and  I  started  to  the  hills  for  the  Dane. 
It  was  dark  when  I  reached  camp  and  everyone  had 
knocked  off  work.  They  came  to  meet  me,  all  but 
the  Dane,  and  I  told  them  all  that  had  happened. 
They  drew  back  in  heavy  silence  while  I  went  on 
over  to  break  the  news  to  the  Dane,  sitting  alone  by 


H6 Happy  Valley 

his  solitary  camp  fire.  He  looked  up,  frowning,  as 
I  accosted  him. 

"Your  wife  is  very  ill.  You  must  go  home  at 
once,"  I  said.  His  face  did  not  indicate  that  he  com 
prehended.  I  added,  "She  is  dying.  Hurry!" 

Over  his  great,  broad,  impassive  face  there  swept 
a  charge  of  fury. 

"Go  home,"  I  said,  shouting  as  to  a  deaf  man. 
"Your  wife  is  dying!" 

"My  vife,"  he  roared,  "she  go  die!  And  I  vork 
like  hell.  Goddamn!" 

I  went  back  to  the  settlement  with  the  Dane  the 
next  morning,  for  my  responsibility  toward  Mother 
Lattig  was  still  with  me,  and  besides  I  had  not  slept 
a  night  on  my  ranch.  Our  old  man  suggested  that 
I  stay  in  the  settlement  a  while —  for  I  told  him  of 
Susie's  trouble  with  Bullpit  and  hinted  at  the  ras 
cality  which  I  believed  lay  deeper  in  his  nature.  He 
wasn't  willing  for  Ed  to  get  loose  with  money,  but 
he  was  uneasy  about  the  women  folks  after  the  poor 
JDanish  woman's  experience.  There  might  be  other 
outlying  homesteaders  in  trouble.  Maybe  other  men 
had  gone  away  and  left  women  to  depend  on  roots 
that  had  been  caught  by  the  frost.  He  wanted  me 
to  make  a  roundup  of  the  valley  and  see  that  every 
one  was  well  and  had  supplies.  Of  course  I  was 
better  at  this  than  at  chopping  wood. 


Bad  News  147 


My  first  visit  would  be  to  Bullpit's  tent.  He  must 
leave  Happy  Valley.  I  had  nearly  one  hundred  dol 
lars  from  my  wood  chopping,  and  I  meant  to  offer 
to  buy  his  relinquishment.  I  didn't  know  what  I 
could  do  with  it.  I  wished  I  might  send  for  Ennis 
to  file  on  it,  but  I  knew  there  was  nothing  in  her 
nature  that  would  respond  to  pioneering.  Still,  I 
would  buy  him  out.  I  believed  Bullpit  would 
accept  the  money  and  leave,  for  the  biggest  thing 
about  him  was  his  vanity.  After  the  return  of  the 
men  from  the  juniper  woods,  the  situation  for  him 
would  be  unbearable. 

When  I  asked  our  old  man  for  my  money,  he 
looked  at  me  questioningly,  but  I  did  not  explain. 
He  wrote  out  my  check.  John  Regan  had  put  a  sum 
of  money  in  the  bank  to  his  credit  with  which  to 
pay  his  men. 

However,  the  check  was  not  needed.  Bullpit  was 
gone.  His  horse,  his  mule,  and  all  his  clothes  were 
gone,  leaving  only  his  brown  tent.  I  rode  on  to 
Tenttown  and  learned  that  he  had  collected  three 
months'  pay  from  the  Book- farmer,  who  was  clerk. 
The  Book- farmer  had  thought  best  to  pay  him  in 
full  and  have  no  more  trouble,  especially  as  the  term 
was  so  nearly  ended. 

I  was  well  satisfied.  Bullpit  was  gone.  That  was 
all  that  I  needed  to  know  for  my  peace  of  mind. 


H8 Happy  Valley 

I  had  a  visit  with  my  little  "hired  girl,"  who  had 
got  over  her  remorse,  but  was  not  to  be  teased  about 
whipping  her  teacher.  It  was  a  sore  subject  with 
her.  I  rode  on,  making  the  rounds  of  the  home 
steads.  I  had  one  hundred  dollars,  I  was  rid  of 
Bullpit,  and  the  sun  still  shone  over  Happy  Valley. 
I  fell  to  planning  the  investment  of  my  money.  I 
would  build  the  long-planned  stone  house  and  I 
would  have  Ennis  send  me  a  box  of  personal  belong 
ings,  books  and  cushions  and  pipes  and  pennants  and 
pictures;  and  in  the  box  would  be  blue  ribbons  for 
my  little  hired  girl.  I  smiled  over  that  parcel  of 
blue  ribbons;  foolishly  I  wanted  to  select  them 
myself. 

The  Dutchman's  ranch  was  coming  on  wonder 
fully.  He  was  far  and  away  the  most  prosperous 
homesteader  we  had.  He  had  built  a  good-sized 
barn,  hauling  the  lumber  over  one  hundred  miles; 
he  had  five  good,  fat  teams,  in  which  he  had  invested 
twelve  hundred  dollars,  and  they  must  have  care. 
His  family  still  lived  in  a  tent,  though  he  had  the 
lumber  on  the  ground  for  a  house.  He  showed  me 
his  farm  machinery.  He  had  put  up  a  machine  shed 
cdongside  his  barn,  and  had  invested  two  thousand 
dollars  in  tools. 

"Ven  a  man  vorks  all  his  life,  und  saves  some- 
dings  for  a  farm  some  day,"  he  explained  with 


Bad  News  149 


pleased  pride,  "he  vants  everyting  goot.  Mine 
cash,  he  most  gone,  but  dere  he  is,"  and  he  pointed 
to  his  barn,  his  horses,  and  his  machinery. 

All  the  little  Dutchies  were  endlessly  busy  — 
clearing,  plowing,  and  leveling.  He  wanted  a  large 
part  of  his  nine  hundred  and  sixty  acres  ready  for  a 
gigantic  crop  of  spring  wheat.  To  stop  to  build  a 
barn  had  merely  been  a  provision  of  economy. 

I  rode  away,  once  more  laying  out  my  hundred 
dollars.  Rabbit  wire  —  of  course  there  must  be  rab 
bit  wire  for  at  least  thirty  acres;  then  seed,  and 
my  stone  house,  which  would  cost  only  the  labor. 
I  wanted  a  horse,  but  decided  I  must  wait  awhile. 

The  next  day  word  came  of  Lil's  illness.  She 
had  lost  her  baby,  and  she  wanted  Ed.  I  rode  off  to 
the  hills  at  once  for  him.  She  was  a  stout,  strong 
woman,  and  made  a  rapid  recovery.  The  nourish 
ment  that  had  not  been  sufficient  for  the  little  new 
life,  had  sufficed  for  her. 

It  was  in  January  that  the  stunning  blow  fell  on 
Happy  Valley.  The  Book- farmer  brought  us  the 
news :  John  Regan  had  been  indicted  for  using 
juniper  wood  from  the  government  forest  reserve  to 
run  the  dredger  that  was  digging  his  ditch  through 
the  swamp.  Work  must  close  down ;  the  cordwood 
which  we  had  been  all  the  winter  cutting  had  been 
confiscated. 


CHAPTER  XII 
BULLPIT'S  REVENGE 

WE  broke  camp  at  once  and  returned  to  the 
valley.  Each  one  took  the  stopping  of  work 
in  his  own  individual  way.  Ed  was  for  pulling 
freight  at  once.  This,  together  with  Lil's  illness, 
and  the  doctor's  visit,  which  had  cost  him  fifty  dol 
lars,  had  finished  Ed.  He  was  through  with  "the 
dom  country."  Jim  looked  to  our  old  man,  as  he 
had  right  along,  for  guidance.  Our  old  man  was  a 
trifle  pale  under  his  heavy  tan  and  his  big  laugh  was 
stilled.  He  walked  about  stroking  his  stubby- 
bearded  chin  and  saying  nothing. 

The  Dane,  whose  wife  had  lived  after  all,  stood 
about  heavily  and  ominously  silent.  Sol  Sneed, 
hearing  the  news,  was  at  Tenttown  to  meet  us  on 
our  return.  He  said  he'd  known  all  along  there 
wouldn't  be  nothin'  in  it  for  him;  and  where  was 
he  to  get  his  pay  for  grub  he'd  let  homesteaders 
have  on  tick?  "Where  do  I  come  in?"  he  queru 
lously  demanded  of  our  old  man,  who  turned  away 
from  him  and  walked  around  to  the  back  of  his 

150 


Bullpit's  Revenge  151 

tent.  Mother  Clark  had  been  crying,  I  could  see  by 
her  eyes. 

"  It  —  it  kinda  gets  on  your  nerves,  Billy,  a  tent," 
she  explained  apologetically,  when  I  followed  her 
inside  after  the  general  meeting  of  the  neighbors. 
The  wood  choppers  had  come  for  their  pay,  and  to 
talk  things  over.  "  It  gets  on  your  nerves,  after  a 
while,  havin'  to  roll  up  your  beds  every  mornin', 
and  move  all  the  dishes  off  the  table  when  you  make 
bread,  or  write  a  letter.  And  when  the  wind  blows 
the  tent  flaps  so.  It  gets  on  your  nerves."  Her  lips 
trembled.  "  I'd  planned  on  a  house  this  spring, 
somethin'  great.  In  town  I  had  a  piano  most  paid 
for.  I  cooked  in  a  loggin'  camp  to  earn  the  money. 
Always,  I  wanted  a  piano.  But  I  had  to  let  it  go 
back.  I  kinda  hoped  maybe  — "  She  wiped  her 
eyes.  "  You  see  these  children  ought  to  have  music, 
and  Susie  loves  it.  I'd  made  sixteen  payments,  and 
I  thought  maybe  —  you  see  they  gave  me  a  year  to 
redeem  it.  I  had  to  let  it  go  back." 

"Don't  you  care,  ma,"  said  Susie,  stoutly,  but 
batting  her  eyes  hard.  "Something  else  will  hap 
pen.  Pa  always  finds  a  way."  She  ran  up  the 
steps.  Poor  little  "hired  girl"!  The  ribbons  were 
quite  white,  and  they  didn't  stand  up  so  perkily  as 
was  their  wont. 

I  turned  away.     I  wished  I  was  a  woman  and 


152  Happy  Valley 

could  cry  too.  I  went  outside.  Sol  Sneed  was  dev 
iling  the  Dane  about  his  grocery  bill.  Ed  had  gone 
to  his  own  tent  across  the  way,  whistling.  I  think 
he  was  glad  of  a  break-up.  The  other  homesteaders 
were  leaving.  From  Susie's  tent  came  the  senti 
mental  strains  of  our  one  unscratched  record, 
"Some  one  to  love  you  — '  It  sounded  as  incon 
gruous  as  rag  time  at  a  funeral.  I  walked  on  around 
the  tent.  There  sat  our  old  man  on  a  soap  box.  He 
coughed  and  hastily  used  his  handkerchief. 

"  I'm  a  thinkin'  o'  Uncle  John,"  he  said,  gently. 

I  stopped  still.  Who  else  of  all  our  down-hearted 
crew  had  thought  of  '  Uncle  John '  ?  I  sat  down  on 
the  ground  and  waited. 

"  He's  in  deep,  is  Uncle  John." 

"Do  you  know  him?"  I  asked,  awed  by  this 
higher  ground  of  our  old  man. 

"Yes,  right  well;  no,  I  never  set  eyes  on  him, 
but  I  know  him  right  well." 

"  I  met  him  once." 

"You  did?"  He  asked  me  nothing  about  my 
impression.  I  didn't  feel  called  upon  to  give  it. 

We  all  went  away  to  our  separate  cabins  quite  as 
though  we  had  indeed  attended  a  funeral.  I  sat  by 
my  stove,  trying  to  think  things  out.  The  men  of 
Tenttown  would  now  be  compelled  to  leave  the  val 
ley  and  find  work.  They  were  reduced,  through  the 


Bullpit's  Revenge  153 

loss  of  the  root  crop,  to  store  food,  and  store  food 
meant  cash.  The  horses  were  also  a  problem,  they 
must  be  fed.  The  supply  of  hay  was  extremely  low. 

Our  old  man  came  over  to  me  a  couple  of  days 
later.  He  stood  in  my  cabin  doorway,  looking  over 
the  wide  valley  now  covered  with  snow. 

"It  was  Bullpit,"  he  said  at  last,  turning  back 
tome. 

"Bullpit!" 

"  He  had  a  grudge,  Bullpit  did ;  he  wanted  to 
strike  at  the  settlers  —  at  us;  he  couldn't  a  found  a 
better  way." 

" But  how  —  where  did  he  get  the  power?" 

"One  of  them  little  government  agents  was 
a-nosin'  around  for  somethin'  to  make  a  report 
about.  He  earns  his  livin'  that  way,  makin'  reports, 
and  Bullpit  set  him  on.  He's  —  he's  not  dull, 
Bullpit." 

And  so  this  was  his  pay  for  the  thrashing. 
We  both  had  the  same  thought,  I  think,  for  the  old 
man  said,  kindly:  "I  don't  want  Susie  or  the 
women  to  get  a  notion  o'  this.  The  child  sets  a 
sight  o'  store  by  her  pa.  I  wouldn't  have  Susie  get 
a  notion  of  it.  It's  did  and  it  can't  be  undid." 

So  that  was  the  answer  to  his  haste  to  get  away. 
I  might  have  known  he  would  do  more  than  merely 
leave  us.  And  he  would  come  back,  undoubtedly. 


154  Happy  Valley 

He  would  surely  add  to  his  revenge  that  far.  Bullpit 
would  be  back. 

"How  is  the  case  going  for  Mr.  Regan?  Have 
you  had  word?"  I  knew  the  old  man  had  been  to 
the  Q  Ranch. 

"  He'll  fight  it.  He's  in  Portland  now.  That's 
a  man  —  Uncle  John.  I  —  I  got  Ed  a  job  at  the 
Q  Ranch,  wranglin'  cattle.  Ed  don't  know  much 
about  wranglin'  cattle,  always  workin'  with  ma 
chinery,  but  he'll  learn.  He's  gone."  He  studied 
the  snow  a  while  longer.  "If  you  had  a  job  — 


now  —  " 


"  Never  mind  me,"  I  hurried  to  say.  "  I  can  look 
out  for  myself;  you  see  to  your  boys  —  they  have 
wives  and  babies  to  feed;  you  see  to  yourself." 

"  A  wife  and  baby  is  somethin'  to  do  it  for.  You 
ain't  got  —  "  He  stopped.  He  didn't  finish  the  sen 
tence.  "Ed's  got  that  job  at  wranglin'  and  it  will 
keep  the  groceries  goin'  a  spell.  I'll  sell  a  couple  of 
the  horses,  and  that  will  help  some.  In  the  mean 
time,  we  all  got  to  conform  to  Uncle  Sam's  rule  just 
the  same  about  them  desert  claims.  We  got  to  have 
a  well  apiece  on  them.  Before  lookin'  about  for  a 
chance  to  get  out  of  the  country  and  earn  some  cash 
ahead  of  croppin'  time,  we'd  better  make  sure  of 
holdin'  the  desert  claims.  We'll  start  a  well  on 
yours  tomorrow." 


Bullpit's  Revenge  155 

"  But  why  mine  ?  Why  not  yours  or  Jim's  or 
Ed's?  Ed's  furnishing  the  food  —  or  will  be  soon. 
Why  not  Ed's?" 

"  We'll  start  with  yours,"  the  old  man  persisted. 
"We'll  pack  up  Susie's  tent  and  go  to  your  desert 
claim  in  the  mornin'.  Susie  can  stay  with  Mother 
Lattig — Susie  or  one  of  the  Dane's  girls.  We'll 
start  diggin',  and  we'll  have  it  dug  in  two  weeks." 

I  was  irritated.  "  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see 
the  sense  of  starting  on  mine,"  I  exclaimed. 
"  Usually  I  can  see  at  least  a  grain  of  sense  in  your 
philanthropies,  but  not  in  this." 

"We'll  be  startin'  right  early,"  he  answered, 
gently.  "  I'll  get  up  here  with  the  horses  and  a  pack 
right  early." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  WELL 

MY  desert  claim  lay  fifteen  miles  south  of  my 
homestead,  a  shut-in  pocket  in  the  hills, 
secluded  and  unwatered.  I  had  a  vague  plan  to 
make  it  into  a  cattle  ranch.  I  could  see  in  imagina 
tion  thousands  of  head  of  cattle  on  the  surrounding 
hills,  and  the  level  stretch  one  unbroken  field  of 
grain. 

As  we  turned  out  of  Happy  Valley  between  the 
hills  into  my  own  little  pocket,  my  heart  swelled 
with  the  pride  of  possession.  I  felt  rise  up  within 
me  a  mighty  will  to  hold  this  land,  to  make  it  my 
own  and  materialize  my  vision. 

"  A  mighty  purty  piece,"  our  old  man  said,  pulling 
up  his  horse.  His  eyes  brightened  with  that  look 
that  I  have  come  to  know  belongs  to  the  seer  and 
to  the  prophet  —  also  to  the  true  pioneer. 

"Make  a  great  little  cattle  ranch  some  day,"  I 
added.  We  both  sat  silent,  gazing  across  the  still, 
untouched  corner  of  earth,  virgin,  and  breathing  the 
charm  and  the  promise  of  all  virginity.  Not  being 
watered,  it  had  not  been  trampled  down  by  cattle. 

156 


The  Well  157 


The  sagebrush  was  so  large  it  almost  hid  our 
horses.  We  crushed  along  through  it,  its  very  odor 
invigorating.  It  shouted  life  from  every  snapping 
fibre,  youth  from  every  crushed  cell.  It  was  the 
very  voice  of  the  virgin  soil,  calling  to  men  to  pos 
sess  it.  There  was  a  singing  note  in  its  fragrance,  a 
rousing,  stirring  influence.  I  wondered,  as  we 
pushed  on  through  the  brush,  our  horses  shaking 
their  heads  this  way  and  that  to  avoid  the  prickling 
of  the  harsh  branches,  I  wondered  if  there  really 
could  be  some  stimulating  quality  in  the  sagebrush 
itself;  if  even  as  the  poppy  held  an  opiate,  this  sage 
held  a  tonic.  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  might  be  so. 
I  remembered  hearing  that  the  finest  specimens  of 
Indians  came  from  the  sagebrush  countries.  I 
thought  of  Mr.  Clark  and  of  the  Clark  girls,  who 
had  grown  up  in  the  sagebrush  wilds  of  Texas  and 
Oklahoma,  and  who  were  strong  and  muscular,  bal 
anced  both  in  mind  and  body.  And  I  thought  of 
sturdy,  self-reliant  Susie,  my  funny,  little  "hired 
girl,"  and  before  I  knew  it  I  was  whistling  the  one 
unscratched  Tenttown  record,  "Just  some  one." 
Our  old  man  stopped  his  horse. 

"  Here'd  be  a  likely  place,"  he  said.  He  had  been 
leading  in  the  ride  over  the  land,  and  studying  it 
for  a  well  location,  while  I  had  been  wandering  in  a 
world  of  my  own. 


158  Happy  Valley 

We  got  down  and  walked  about,  examining  the 
ground.  Clark  finally  drove  in  a  stake. 

"I'd  say  right  here  for  the  first  one/'  he  said. 
"  It's  the  highest  point  and  will  make  more  diggin', 
but  its  elevation  will  put  the  water  easily  over  the 
whole  ranch,  that  is,  if  you  get  water  enough.  If 
not,  the  next  well  can  be  dug  lower  down.  But  I'd 
put  the  first  one  up  here.  No  tellin'  how  long  we'll 
have  to  dig  —  or  how  quick  we'll  have  to  stop,  for 
that  matter." 

That  was  one  disadvantage  about  a  virgin  coun 
try.  There  were  no  precedents,  no  books  in  which 
we  could  look  it  up ;  we  had  to  prove  each  thing  for 
ourselves.  We  were  true  Robinson  Crusoes. 

He  started  digging,  while  I  set  up  the  tent,  and 
so  high  was  the  sagebrush,  and  so  low  the  tent,  that 
a  few  feet  away  it  was  lost  to  view.  I  hung  our 
bacon,  flour,  and  potatoes  in  bags  to  the  ridgepole 
out  of  the  way  of  thieving  coyotes,  constructed  a 
camp  stove,  then  melted  snow  for  water,  filling  sev 
eral  cans. 

The  work  went  rapidly,  and  thanks  to  my  months 
of  grubbing  and  chopping  I  had  sufficient  muscle 
to  keep  steadily  at  it,  though  I  still  had  to  admit  that 
at  twenty-two  I  was  not  as  good  a  man  as  our  old 
man  at  sixty-three.  He  had  spent  his  years  in  a 
steady,  cheerful  fight  with  nature,  and  it  had  made 


The  Well  159 


him  not  only  strong,  but  pliable.  I  imagined  he  had 
never  failed  in  a  bout  with  nature;  only  the  wiles 
of  men  had  been  too  much  for  him;  but  his  spirit 
was  sweet,  and  his  hope  a  living  fountain,  and  the 
world  owed  him  little,  it  seemed  to  me,  after  all, 
that  it  had  not  paid. 

About  nine  feet  down  we  came  to  a  gravel  stratum 
that  was  much  more  difficult  to  dig  through,  owing 
to  its  caving  proclivities.  It  lasted  some  six  or 
seven  feet,  and  then  we  struck  hard  pan.  This  was 
the  first  really  dirty  work  I  had  ever  done,  and 
frankly  I  did  not  like  it,  but  the  old  man  whistled 
and  sang,  and  stopped  only  to  wipe  the  sweat  from 
his  forehead,  and  seemed  to  be  in  his  native  element. 
I  suppressed  my  sentiments  toward  this  particular 
phase  of  pioneering;  however,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  the  three  other  wells  ahead  of  us  — 
three  more — and  the  old  man  could  sing! 

At  eighty  feet  I  was  good  and  sick  of  the  whole 
proposition.  We  had  been  digging  two  weeks.  I 
didn't  believe  we  would  ever  reach  water.  I  was 
for  giving  the  thing  up  and  starting  another  well 
lower  down.  It  would  be  easier  to  lift  the  water 
by  machinery,  I  argued  with  the  old  man,  than  to 
dig  wells  so  deep.  He  admitted  that  often  in  dry 
countries  you  had  to  go  one  hundred  feet,  some 
times  more.  He  had  gone  two  hundred.  At  that  I 


160  Happy  Valley 

struck.  We  had  dug  far  enough,  and  it  was  my 
well  and  my  land,  and  I  insisted  on  stopping.  The 
old  man  slowly  scratched  his  chin  in  a  way  he  had 
when  he  was  up  against  it.  We  were  at  the  top  of 
the  well,  ready  to  begin  the  day's  work. 

"You  take  Baldy,  Billy,  and  ride  over  to  Tent- 
town  and  get  another  rope,"  he  said.  "  I'll  be 
reachin'  up  to  fill  the  bucket  now  by  night.  And  I'd 
like  awful  well  to  know  that  everything's  all  right 
down  to  Tenttown;  I'd  like  awful  well  to  know, 
Billy;  and  we  gotta  have  more  rope." 

His  patience  —  and  I  think  his  diplomacy  —  won 
me  out  of  my  rebellion.  And  it  was  perfectly  true, 
if  we  were  to  continue  to  dig,  we  would  have  to  have 
more  rope.  We  had  provided  just  eighty  feet. 

He  lowered  himself.  I  looked  over  the  brim  of 
the  long,  deep  hole  in  the  ground  and  shuddered  at 
the  small  insect  he  was,  so  far  down,  digging  and 
whistling.  I  left  him  and  rode  away  for  the  rope. 
Calmness  returned  to  me  on  the  long  gallop,  and  I 
figured  that  we  couldn't  be  so  very  far  from  water 
after  all.  I  would  see  it  out. 

All  the  Clarks  ran  out  to  meet  me,  eager  for  news. 
Susie  had  wanted  to  come  to  visit  us,  but  as  we  had 
both  the  horses  this  had  not  been  possible,  unless 
she  walked.  There  was  no  news  —  she  said  —  Oh, 
yes,  there  was,  Jim's  wife  reminded  her  —  Bullpit 


The  Well  161 


was  back.  Neither  Susie  nor  any  of  the  Clark 
women  knew  of  his  connection  with  the  Regan 
indictment.  He  had  stopped  at  the  tent,  saying  he 
wanted  to  be  friends,  and  Susie,  like  the  good  little 
sport  she  was,  had  been  willing  to  forget.  I  think 
a  man  can  usually  thrash  another  man  and  then 
shake  hands  with  him  and  feel  all  right  about  it. 
But  with  most  women  the  enemy  is  never  thrashed. 
Susie  had  in  this  the  viewpoint  of  her  brothers  of 
the  race.  Her  rancor  seemed  to  have  passed,  and 
she  now  laughed  over  the  skirmish.  This  made  me 
a  trifle  uneasy.  I  wished  she  knew  the  truth  about 
Bullpit,  but  it  would  cut  her  too  deeply,  and  her 
father  had  said  she  must  not  know,  so  I  withheld 
what  I  knew. 

"  Susie  hadn't  oughta  started  it,"  her  mother  said 
to  me,  with  a  chiding  look  at  her  daughter.  "  Of 
course,  as  he  says,  no  man  that  is  a  man  can  fight 
back  at  a  woman;  he  couldn't  a  done  nothin'  dif 
ferent;  Susie  hadn't  oughta  started  it." 

I  could  not  wait  for  much  of  a  visit,  for  I  thought 
of  the  old  man  I  had  left  down  in  the  well.  Some 
thing  might  happen  to  him  while  I  was  away. 

I  succeeded  in  borrowing  twenty  feet  of  rope 
from  the  Book- farmer,  who  had  just  bought  it,  and 
promising  that  we  would  both  return  within  a  week 
or  ten  days  at  the  latest,  rode  back  to  the  well.  Our 


162 Happy  Valley 

old  man  was  hard  at  it.  I  called  down  to  him  that 
Mother  Clark  had  sent  him  a  big,  fat  peach  pie.  I 
told  him  to  come  up  at  once,  or  I'd  eat  it  all.  I 
wanted  to  take  his  place,  and  let  him  haul  up  the 
dirt  for  a  change.  He  ordered  me,  with  a  chuckle, 
to  let  that  pie  alone  till  supper  time,  and  get  busy 
with  the  windlass.  I  put  the  pie  safely  under  a 
pan,  with  some  fresh  bread,  stood  a  mason  jar  of 
stewed  peaches  on  top,  and  quickly  got  into  my 
digging  clothes. 

I  wound  up  the  rope  on  the  windlass  and  fastened 
the  new  piece  to  the  end  of  it.  The  new  rope  was 
stiff  and  hard  and  I  had  considerable  difficulty  in 
splicing  it.  The  knot  slipped  treacherously.  For 
some  time  I  struggled  with  the  knot,  but  my  hands 
were  stiff  with  cold  and  unaccustomed  to  the  intri 
cacies  of  splice  knots.  Finally  I  decided  to  attach 
the  new  rope  to  the  windlass,  making  a  loop  of  it 
to  which  I  would  fasten  the  old  rope.  That  would 
do  for  the  present.  I  succeeded  in  doing  this  after 
several  bungling  attempts  and  at  length  sent  the 
bucket  spinning  down  the  shaft  for  the  earth  which 
our  old  man  had  loosened  while  waiting. 

"I  kinda  have  a  feelin'  that  we're  gettin'  some 
where,  Billy,"  he  called  up  to  me.  "  Certainly  we've 
gone  far  enough  to  be  gettin'  somewhere ! "  he  added 
with  a  chuckle. 


The  Well  163 


Three  times  the  bucket  came  up  and  then  I  let 
myself  down.  The  old  man  should  see  whether 
or  not  he  was  always  to  carry  the  heavy  end 
of  the  load.  I  would  do  the  digging  for  the 
rest  of  the  day  and  he  should  work  above  —  there 
was  a  sudden,  swift  slacking,  the  rope  gave 
way,  and  I  went  crashing  to  the  bottom  of  the 
well. 

Everything  went  round  in  a  black,  dizzying  whirl, 
shot  through  with  millions  of  tiny  lights.  There 
was  nothing  anywhere  but  bright  metal  dust,  whirl 
ing  madly,  and  I  was  in  the  center  of  it.  At  last 
a  voice  came,  a  voice  from  far  away  on  another 
planet. 

"Billy,  Billyboy!" 

I  opened  my  eyes.  Our  old  man  was  bending 
over  me,  and  I  lay  on  the  damp  bottom  of  the  well 
under  great  coils  of  rope. 

"  Billy,"  he  repeated.  I  could  see  a  shining  in  his 
eyes  like  tears. 

"I'm  all  right,"  I  said,  and  tried  to  rise  on  my 
elbow,  but  fell  back  again.  The  old  man  caught  me 
in  his  arms.  I  think  I  fainted.  Everything  became 
a  whirling  madness  of  bright  lights.  There  was  a 
tugging  at  me  to  come  out  of  it,  and  I  didn't  want 
to  come  out  of  it;  and  then  again  there  came  the 
crashing,  grinding  disintegration  of  everything,  and 


164  Happy  Valley 

out  of  it  I  once  more  opened  my  eyes.  The  old  man 
held  my  head  on  his  knees.  He  had  pushed  the  rope 
off  my  legs. 

"I  don't  think  I'm  much  hurt,"  I  said,  but  my 
voice  seemed  to  come  from  another  body  a  long  way 
off.  "  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute." 

"  Sure,  and  as  soon's  you're  sound  again  in  the 
head,  I'll  just  climb  up  with  that  rope  and  haul  you 
out  in  no  time.  No,  there  now,  don't  go  gettin' 
ambitious.  Just  lay  still  like  you  are  a  few  minutes. 
Never  saw  anythin'  like  these  colts  o'  youngsters. 
Can't  ye  keep  still,  Billy?" 

He  spoke  sharply  and  instantly  I  understood,  for 
I  had  put  my  hand  down  to  locate  my  numbed  legs. 
Both  were  broken  below  the  knee.  I  knew  now 
that  he  had  discovered  this  while  removing  the  rope. 
I  ignored  the  matter,  leaving  it  to  our  old  man.  He 
moved  me  to  one  side,  then  coiled  the  rope  out  of 
the  way;  it  was  a  heavy  weight.  A  four- foot  diam 
eter  does  not  leave  much  space  for  two  men  and 
eighty  feet  of  rope. 

"Funny  how  you  held  tight  to  the  rope,  Billy," 
he  said  with  an  attempt  at  a  chuckle.  "  Come  down 
holdin'  tight  to  it;  never  let  go  once,  Billy;  was 
holdin'  tight  all  the  way.  It  was  the  rope  failed  — 
you  didn't,  boy." 

"I  wonder  how  it  happened?"  I  said.     Still  I 


The  Well  165 


seemed  far  away,  as  though  talking  over  long 
distance. 

"The  knot,  Billy;  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  you 
made  a  common  granny  knot." 

All  the  time  he  was  working  steadily  coiling  the 
rope.  I  had  the  impression  that  he  was  talking  to 
keep  me  there;  that  if  he  stopped  the  conversation 
I  would  slip  away.  "  It  was  that  knot,  sure,  Billy ; 
first  thing  I  do  when  we  get  on  top  and  get  you  all 
fixed  up  good,  will  be  to  show  you  how  to  tie  a 
square  knot.  Don't  you  know  the  difference,  Billy  ? " 

I  confessed,  weakly,  my  ignorance  of  granny  and 
square  knots  as  such. 

"Little  thing;  every  boy  ought  to  know  it."  He 
took  up  two  ends  of  the  rope,  and  tied  them  to 
gether,  then  pulled  hard  on  each  one.  "That'll 
never  give,  Billy,  tied  that  way;  that's  a  square 
knot.  You  make  two  half-hitches,  you  see;  it  can't 
ever  pull  out.  The  trouble  was,  Billy,  you  didn't 
know  how  to  make  a  square  knot;  I'll  show  you, 
plain,  so's  you'll  get  it."  He  was  pulling  at  the 
rope,  testing  it,  breathing  hard.  "  Soon's  ever  —  we 
get  —  you  —  fixed  up!  There,  that'll  hold  an  ele 
phant.  Now,  Billy,  you  just  lay  low,  and  keep  your 
eyes  covered,  when  the  dust  comes,  because  like's  not 
I'll  have  to  kick  out  some  dust  before  I  get  to  the 
top ;  I  gener'lly  do  kick  up  a  dust  gettin'  anywhere ; 


166  Happy  Valley 

you  lay  right  low,  Billy,  puttin'  your  face  and  your 
arm  on  my  shirt "  —  he  was  pulling  it  off  over  his 
head  —  "so,  so's  not  to  get  cold  on  that  damp 
ground.  I'll  have  you  up  in  a  couple  o'  hours,  Billy, 
or  sooner.  ^You'll  hold  on  right  tight  for  a  couple 
o'  hours,  Billy—?" 

"  Sure,  I'll  hold  on ! "  I  was  beginning  to  feel  my 
legs  now,  and  I  wanted  him  to  hurry.  I  was  deadly 
anxious  for  him  to  hurry.  He  fastened  the  end  of 
the  rope  to  his  belt  and  straddling  from  side  to  side 
started  to  make  his  way  up  the  well. 

"The  Lord — might  a' — made  me  longer  —  legs 
if  he  intended  —  'em  for  climbin'  up — four-foot 
wells,"  he  called  back,  jocularly,  "but  they'll  reach 
—  and  that's  enough  to  ask  —  they'll  reach." 

They  just  would  reach  and  that  was  all.  Slowly, 
carefully,  he  climbed,  calling  back  to  me  continu 
ally,  apologizing  for  kicking  down  dust,  waiting  till 
it  would  settle,  then  going  on  again,  the  short,  squat 
old  man,  straddling  his  way  up  against  the  tiny  patch 
of  sky,  the  long  line  of  the  rope  which  was  attached 
to  his  belt,  following  him.  My  legs  were  coming 
alive  faster  every  minute  now.  I  fixed  my  eyes  on 
the  figure  above,  and  steadied  my  nerves,  and  called 
back  to  him  continually  so  he  would  know  I  was  still 
conscious. 

It  took  him  an  hour,  perhaps,  to  get  sufficiently 


The  Well  167 


far  for  his  voice  to  come  back  muffled  —  and  then 
he  stopped,  and  there  was  a  great  rattling  of  dust 
and  gravel.  He  had  struck  the  gravel  belt.  I  sud 
denly  remembered  that  the  gravel  stratum  had  wid 
ened  out,  making  a  concavity  in  the  wall.  His  legs 
could  never  reach  across  it !  I  sat  up  to  call  to  him, 
but  fell  back  almost  with  the  same  breath;  he  had 
lost  his  footing.  An  instinct  for  self-preservation 
made  me  pull  my  broken  legs  and  my  whole  body 
close  into  the  damp  wall.  He  landed  without  strik 
ing  me,  on  the  huge  coil  of  rope,  which  served  to 
break  his  fall. 

It  was  my  turn  to  minister,  but  he  had  not  lost 
consciousness.  Instantly  he  ran  his  hands  over  his 
body  and  began  to  move  his  limbs.  No  bones  were 
broken.  He  could  move  all  his  joints.  He  attempted 
to  stand,  but  went  down  in  a  heap  on  the  rope.  It 
seemed  to  be  his  hip. 

"This  ain't  no  ways  fair,  me  takin'  all  the  bed- 
din',"  he  said  at  last,  in  an  effort  at  jocularity.  He 
began  to  pull  the  rope  out  from  under  him.  To 
gether  we  coiled  it  round  and  round  on  the  bottom 
of  the  well. 

"We're  right  comfortable,  Billy?"  he  said,  when 
at  last  we  were  both  crowded  on  to  the  rope,  my 
legs  being  given  the  preference  as  to  position.  "  I'll 
mebby  rest  today,  Billy,  but  tomorrow  mornin'  I'll 


168  Happy  Valley 


be  gettin'  up  again.  I'll  take  the  spade  next  time. 
I  oughta  took  it  this  time.  I  forgot  that  gravel  belt. 
I'll  take  the  spade  tomorrow,  Billy." 

Dear  old  man,  he  was  trying  to  fasten  my  mind 
on  some  point  in  the  plan  for  escape  that  would 
make  it  practical. 

"  Of  coures,"  I  agreed,  "  the  spade's  the  thing.  If 
I'd  only  covered  up  that  pie;  and  the  horses — ." 

I  felt  the  shiver  that  went  through  his  body. 
"  Are  the  horses  loose,  Billy,  so's  they  can  find  food 
and  water  for  theirselves  ?  It  might  take  'em  home 
—  huntin'  food  and  water  —  and  they'd  be  a  mes 
sage  to  the  folks/' 

"  They're  loose,"  I  lied.  "  I  forgot  to  tie  up  Baldy, 
and  Dandy  can  get  loose  without  a  bit  of  trouble." 
This  was  true  of  Dandy.  But  I  had  tied  Baldy; 
maybe  he  could  break  the  rope. 

The  old  man  sighed.  "  The  poor  beasties,  they're 
at  the  mercy  o'  the  men  that  owns  'em  and  works 
'em  for  their  livin'.  And  we  —  we're  at  the  mercy 
o'  the  Lord  A'mighty;  He'll  find  a  way." 

We  were  both  still  for  a  long  while  after  that.  I 
think  I  slept,  though  it  was  more  like  heavy  uncon 
sciousness  than  sleep.  When  I  awoke  again  it  was 
with  excruciating  pain  in  my  legs  and  a  need  to 
move  from  my  cramped  position.  The  old  man  was 
instantly  awake,  if  he  had  been  asleep,  and  helped 


The  Well  169 


me  to  turn  over.    I  saw  a  bright  star  up  through  our 
long  tube  of  earth,  and  thus  I  knew  it  was  night. 

The  next  morning  we  faced  the  facts.  The  old 
man's  hip  was  so  lame  he  could  scarcely  move  his 
leg. 

"  I  told  them  we'd  be  through  in  a  week/5  I  said. 
"  I  knew  we  could  do  the  twenty  feet  in  that  time, 
and  my  mind  was  made  up  to  go  no  farther ;  besides, 
I  could  get  only  twenty  feet  of  rope.  Susie  knew  I 
got  just  twenty  feet  —  she  rode  over  with  me  to 
the  Book- farmer's.  If  we  are  not  home  in  a  week 
they  will  come  to  see  why.  Susie  will." 

I  felt  sure  of  this. 

The  chance  of  a  passer-by  was  just  as  probable 
as  if  we  had  landed  on  the  top  of  a  snow  peak.  I 
don't  suppose  anyone  had  ever  come  that  way,  unless 
it  might  have  been  a  stray  buckaroo.  That  gave 
me  an  idea. 

"  This  would  be  a  right  good  pocket  for  a  camp 
for  cattle,"  I  suggested. 

"  No  water,"  the  old  man  said,  meeting  me  hon 
estly  in  the  matter.  "  I  guess  your  homestead  has 
been  one  of  their  choice  grazin'  spots  all  right,  with 
that  spring  of  yours;  but  they  wouldn't  come  here, 
with  no  water." 

"  Still,  there  are  land-lookers  coming  down  now. 
Bullpit  might  be  taking  people  out  to  see  land.  He 


170  Happy  Valley 

knows  this  part  pretty  well.  He  might  bring  a  party 
down  here." 

"Bullpit  might/'  the  old  man  agreed,  nodding 
his  head.  "He  might  be  our  salvation  yet  — 
Bullpit." 

Even  in  that  awful  situation  I  did  not  relish  owing 
my  life  to  Bullpit.  "  Susie  will  ride  over,"  I  added. 
"  She'll  borrow  a  horse  and  ride  over." 

"Yes,  Susie."  The  old  man  was  silent  a  long 
time.  I  wondered  if  his  hip  were  occupying  him 
with  its  pain;  a  crushed  hip  was  bad  enough,  but 
the  inability  to  stretch  out  made  the  matter  a  thou 
sand  times  worse. 

"You  won't  never  know  about  it  till  you're  an 
old  man."  He  spoke  at  last  out  of  the  silence.  "  It's 
different  —  when  a  little  one  comes  late.  The  others 
was  fine ;  oh,  but  they  was  fine,  and  their  ma  and  me 
was  proud,  even  if  we  did  want  a  boy.  But  Susie 
came  late  —  like  a  last  bloom  in  a  old  garden;  mebby 
you've  seen  'em  that  way,  sometimes,  in  your  ma's 
garden  back  home  —  a  last  bloom  in  a  old  garden  all 
winter  killed." 

"  Susie  is  a  wonderful  girl ! "  I  choked  over  the 
words,  for  suddenly  I  did  see  my  mother's  old  gar 
den;  a  garden  all  lilacs  and  heliotrope  and  lilies  of 
the  valley,  flowers  with  fragrance,  memory  invoking. 
I  had  put  my  earlier  life  so  completely  out  of  mind 


The  Well  171 


since  coming  to  Happy  Valley  that  now  when  the 
old  man  opened  a  little  door,  back  it  rushed  in  a 
thousand  pictures.  My  mother  —  my  father  with 
his  sad,  twitching,  nerve-racked  face  —  and  the 
great,  dark,  gloomy  house  that  forever  shut  in  a 
secret  and  shut  out  the  world;  still  it  was  my  own 
and  it  now  cried  loudly  to  me.  Was  this  the  end 
of  everything  for  me,  after  all  the  stress  and  worry 
—  dead,  in  the  bottom  of  a  well ! 

"It'll  go  mighty  hard  to  have  anything  —  not 
happy  —  happen  to  Susie.  The  rest  has  ripened  up 
happy;  Susie  must."  He  was  silent  awhile;  then, 
"Ever  notice  Susie's  eyes?  They  twinkle  some, 
Susie's  eyes.  I  was  thinkin'  last  night  when  the 
stars  was  a  twinklin' — ."  He  broke  off.  "She's 
got  her  ma's  eyes,  Susie  has;  just  like  her  ma's  when 
she  was  a  girl." 

"We've  got  to  get  out  of  here,"  I  growled,  and 
made  to  get  up,  but  fell  back  in  a  heap.  He  caught 
me,  and  the  strength  in  his  wrist  made  it  a  vise.  I 
groaned  with  the  pain. 

"You  dod-gasted  fool  of  a  boy,"  he  said,  in  his 
mild  voice.  "Just  like  a  colt;  not  a  bit  o'  sense." 
He  kept  his  hold  on  my  wrist.  "  We'll  get  out  of 
here  all  right ;  take  our  time ;  take  our  time ;  I  never 
was  one  to  hurry."  And  after  a  minute,  "Wisht 
we  had  that  pie." 


172 Happy  Valley 

"  Wish  I'd  covered  it  better,"  I  said,  imitating  his 
casualness. 

"There's  no  dogs." 

"  There's  coyotes." 

I  think  it  must  have  been  along  in  the  afternoon 
when  he  pulled  out  from  under  us  two  ends  of  the 
rope.  I  know  the  pain  in  my  legs  had  almost  dis 
appeared,  but  I  was  ravishingly  hungry  and  thirsty. 
The  thirst  was  the  worst.  I  think  maybe  he  saw  me 
lapping  the  moist  earth  with  my  tongue,  though  I 
tried  to  do  it  secretly.  It  was  then  he  pulled  out 
the  two  ends  of  the  rope.  "We  might  as  well  put 
in  our  time  to  good  advantage,"  he  began  gently. 
"  Now,  see  here ;  this  is  the  ordinary,  every-day 
granny  knot  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred 
schoolboys  —  and  all  females  —  will  tie."  He  tied 
the  rope  in  the  usual  knot,  then  he  pulled  hard  on  it. 
"  You  see,  it  slips;  you  ain't  got  any  purchase  on  it. 
Now,  here's  the  square  knot  that  every  cattleman 
knows;  there;  try  it;  make  your  two  half -hitches  — 
oh,  let  me."  He  took  it  out  of  my  nerveless  hands; 
try  as  I  would,  I  could  not  keep  my  hands  from 
shaking.  "See,  now  —  with  them  two  half-hitches, 
it  can't  slip." 

"  I  see,"  I  said  glibly.   "  I'll  do  it  right  next  time." 

"  Every  schoolboy  ought  to  be  taught  to  make  a 

square  knot,"  he  went  on,  seriously.     "  It  ought  to 


The  Well  173 


be  in  the  —  curriculum;  if  you'd  a  been  educated 
right  —  we  wouldn't  be  down  here  now  —  and  the 
coyotes  e^tin'  our  pie."  He  laughed  and  tried  to  be 
very  gay,  our  old  man. 

That  night  my  tongue  became  hard  and  crusty. 
Again  and  again  I  waked  from  a  nightmare  of  ter 
ror  and  tried  to  wet  my  tongue,  which  no  longer 
seemed  to  belong  in  my  mouth.  I  dug  in  the  wet 
earth,  and  filled  my  mouth  with  it,  and  held  it  to 
my  lips  —  the  damp  coolness  was  tantalizing.  How 
far  down  was  water  ?  I  now  began  to  question  that 
point  as  I  had  never  questioned  it  before.  It  was 
my  one  conscious  or  unconscious  thought ;  how  much 
farther  must  we  go  for  water ;  I  tried  to  dig  with  my 
hands;  maybe  it  was  but  a  few  feet;  you  couldn't 
tell ;  maybe  it  was  close,  close. 

Once  the  old  man  caught  my  hands  and  held  them. 
"  Stars  is  mighty  bright,"  he  said.  "  Look  up  at  'em, 
Billy.  Stars  is  mighty  bright."  He  began  in  a 
cracked  voice  to  sing,  "  Lead  Kindly  Light."  I  don't 
know  how  long  it  was  before  I  fell  asleep,  but  I 
think  it  was  not  long. 

I  noticed  that  our  old  man  had  made  notches  in 
the  wall;  there  were  four;  they  marked  the  days. 
Pain  had  almost  wholly  left  me ;  hunger  had  left  me ; 
but  the  going  of  pain  and  hunger  only  made  a 
greater  void  for  thirst.  I  now  lapped  at  the  well 


174  Happy  Valley 

wall  like  a  mad  dog,  and  the  old  man  did  not  try 
to  stop  me. 

At  intervals  he  shouted;  someone  might  pass 
above  —  it  was  possible ;  but  his  voice  only  fell  back ; 
I  knew  it  did  not  reach  the  top  of  the  well.  He 
pulled  out  his  wallet;  he  had  a  check  for  one 
hundred  dollars.  He  speculated  on  what  it  would 
buy. 

"  I  was  in  one  of  them  swell  restaurants  once  in 
Chicago,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  but  the  menu  had  names  on 
it  and  prices  after  'em.  I  was  some  close  run  then 
—  savin'  to  come  West  —  and  I  didn't  order  much; 
but  always  I've  wanted  to  go  back  and  get  some 
of  that  special  kind  o'  grass  —  patty  de  foy  grass 
they  called  it.  They  asked  a  big  price  for  just 
grass.  Think  how  much  I  could  buy  with  this 
check;  this  ain't  no  place  for  a  man  with  money, 
Billy." 

We  played  with  imaginary  menus,  ordering  with 
a  care  and  fmickiness  that  neither  of  us  could  be 
capable  of  save  down  in  a  well,  and  always,  tomor 
row,  his  leg  would  be  manageable;  tomorrow  he 
would  make  the  climb  out  with  the  spade ;  some  way 
the  spade  was  a  great  source  of  comfort;  if  he  had 
only  carried  the  spade  up  the  first  time. 

"  Dod  blast  them  coyotes."  He  would  come  back 
to  it.  "Gettin'  our  pie."  Their  howling  was  the 


The  Well  175 


one  sound  that  we   heard.      It  expressed  all   the 
misery  of  man  since  Adam. 

My  thirst  increased.  In  a  frenzy  I  tried  to  dig 
to  water ;  my  lips  were  swollen  and  my  tongue  filled 
my  mouth  —  a  dry,  hard,  blackened  tongue.  It  was 
getting  unendurable  —  every  moment  a  madder 
craving. 

There  were  six  notches  in  the  wall;  I  wondered 
when  our  old  man  had  made  them ;  I  didn't  seem  to 
have  seen  him;  I  decided  that  they  just  came  there 
of  themselves;  and  now  I  couldn't  distinguish  night 
from  day,  sleeping  hours  from  wakeful  ones.  I 
would  see  figures  all  about  me.  A  face  would  lean 
over  me  and  smile,  and  I  would  smile  back,  and 
speak,  and  then  I  would  hear  the  old  man  calling  to 
me :  "  Billy,  Billy  boy,"  and  I  would  blink  my  eyes 
and  wake  up  and  say  peevishly,  "  What  is  it  ?  You 
interrupted — ."  Then  I  would  remember,  and  keep 
still. 

Blisters  began  to  form  on  my  legs;  great,  white, 
angry  blisters;  and  the  thirst  gnawed  and  gnawed. 
It  was  now  an  animal  inside  of  me,  growing  con 
stantly  larger  and  stronger,  my  shell  of  a  body 
almost  breaking  apart  to  give  it  freedom. 

There  were  seven  notches.  I  sat  up  and  sharply 
denounced  our  old  man.  "The  week's  up,"  I  said, 
accusingly. 


176  Happy  Valley 

"  Yes,  Billy ;  they'll  be  comin'  today ;  you  see  they 
expect  us  home  today;  when  we  don't  come,  they'll 
be  comin',  Billy.  Just  hold  on  brave  like  you've 
been  doin';  hold  on  brave — ." 

"  Water,"  I  cried,  falling  back.  My  eye  sockets 
were  burning  up;  I  dug  my  fingers  wildly  into  the 
earth.  "  Water !  "  I  could  scarcely  speak  the  word. 
I  turned  my  face  down  and  began  to  lap  at  the  earth. 
"Water." 

The  stars  were  shining ;  our  old  man  was  singing, 
"  Lead  Kindly  Light."  Figures  were  thronging  all 
around  me  in  a  wonderful  brightness.  Women  were 
pouring  water  from  strange,  deep  jugs;  they  looked 
like  the  women  in  the  child's  Bible  I  had  known; 
they  were  in  flowing  robes,  with  sandals  on  their 
feet ;  they  all  drew  water  from  a  well  and  poured  it 
out  again  —  now  it  was  a  fountain  that  I  saw,  and 
the  women  were  of  stone,  and  the  water  gushed 
from  all  their  jugs.  The  women  had  strange,  blind 
eyes,  and  all  at  once  they  came  alive  out  of  the  stone, 
and  their  eyes  twinkled  like  stars,  and  my  mother 
came  among  them.  She  was  worried  and  pale  and 
thin  with  wide,  startled  eyes  full  of  fear.  She  was 
calling,  "  Billy,  Billy."  I  was  fishing  now,  my  bare 
feet  in  the  water.  It  was  my  long  day  of  "  hooky  " 
from  school.  I  didn't  want  to  go  back  home,  the 
water  was  so  deliciously  cool  and  refreshing.  I 


The  Well  177 


called  back  to  her,  "  I'm  just  fishing,  mother."  Our 
old  man  pulled  me  into  his  arms.  He  was  sobbing. 
I  looked  up  and  knew  the  stars. 

The  next  thing  I  remember  he  was  climbing  up 
the  well.  It  was  daylight.  "That's  right;  go  and 
leave  me!"  I  called  jeeringly.  The  blisters  were 
large  and  thick  now  all  over  my  legs.  I  thought  I 
was  dead,  and  that  he  was  trying  to  desert  me. 
"  Won't  stay  with  a  dead  man !  Afraid  to  stay  with 
a  dead  man ! "  I  taunted.  He  looked  back  but  went 
on  climbing. 

Then  I  knew  that  I  was  not  dead.  I  knew  that 
our  old  man  was  making  one  last  desperate  effort 
for  us  both.  I  knew  it  was  futile,  yet  the  thought 
of  rescue,  the  faint  hope  of  it  revived  me,  sobered 
me  for  a  moment.  I  watched  him  against  that  patch 
of  blue,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe.  The  climb 
would  have  been  difficult  enough  for  the  best  of 
men;  but  with  his  injured  hip  and  in  his  weakened 
condition,  it  seemed  an  impossible  undertaking. 

The  dust  came  down  in  gritty  torrents.  It  choked 
me,  arousing  my  agony  of  thirst  so  that  I  cried  out. 
He  would  stop  when  it  got  too  bad,  and  he  called 
back  short,  panting  words  of  courage  to  which  I 
tried  to  respond  but  instead  gave  only  strange  gut 
tural  cries  that  frightened  me.  As  his  voice  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  the  horror  of  loneliness  seized 


178  Happy  Valley 

me.  Now  I  was  weighted  down  with  a  great  weight ; 
it  was  the  rope,  but  now  it  seemed  to  be  writhing 
and  twisting  itself  about  me  like  some  hideous  sub 
terranean  reptile,  dragging  me  farther  and  farther 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  I  thrust  out  my  arms 
and  saw  it  was  only  the  coil  of  rope. 

I  looked  up.  I  knew  that  it  was  a  useless  climb. 
How  could  the  spade  help  him?  It  could  not  help 
him.  Still  I  watched  him,  struggling  to  keep  my 
reason  as  he  climbed  farther  and  farther  away  from 
me,  nearer  and  nearer  to  escape  —  to  life.  When  he 
reached  the  gravel,  would  he  fall  again  ?  How  long 
could  he  hold  his  position?  What  if  the  spade 
dropped?  He  could  not  possibly  climb  back;  he 
would  slip.  A  cloud  of  dust  came  rattling  down;  I 
choked,  and  buried  my  face  in  my  arms.  It  was  not 
dust.  It  was  gravel !  It  struck  the  back  of  my  head 
and  ears  like  a  whip.  He  had  reached  the  spot  from 
which  he  had  fallen  before !  Our  game  was  up.  In 
an  agony  I  crouched  to  one  side,  waiting  for  him 
to  fall. 


T 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   RESCUE 

HE  old  man's  voice  came  to  me,  and  I  lifted 
my  head  to  hear. 

"They're  here,  Billy;  they're  here!" 

And  then  he  shouted,  "Hello,  hello,  the  well  — 
quick !  the  well ! " 

He  was  fooling  me;  it  was  another  ruse,  I  told 
myself  —  but  I  knew  better,  down  deep  inside;  I 
knew  he  told  me  the  truth;  and  then,  looking  up,  I 
saw  besides  the  figure  of  the  old  man,  a  face  —  it 
was  Susie! 

The  old  man  was  wonderful  to  the  end.  "  Susie, 
honey,  get  all  the  bridles  and  splice  'em  together, 
quick.  The  rope's  below." 

Susie  ran  away.  It  seemed  a  long  time  before 
she  came  back  with  the  reins.  With  their  help, 
braced  against  her  young  strength,  he  got  out.  In 
stantly  he  called  back  to  me.  "Hold  fast,  Billy." 
Then  he  was  gone. 

I  waited,  knowing  they  would  manage  it  some 
way ;  they  came  back  and  began  letting  down  yards 
and  yards  of  string;  it  was  gray- white;  they  were 

179 


180 Happy  Valley 

cutting  up  the  tent.  They  sat  together  on  the  edge 
of  the  well,  cutting  and  tying  and  letting  it  down, 
with  only  a  word  from  the  old  man  to  me  now  and 
then.  At  length  it  touched  me.  The  old  man  called : 
"Tie  the  rope  to  it,  Billy;  tie  it  hard  —  a  square 
knot,  Billy."  It  was  difficult  to  do  this  simple  thing. 

They  pulled  the  rope  up  and  wound  it  over  the 
windlass ;  then  the  old  man  contrived  a  seat  for  me 
of  the  tent's  stakes  and  began  to  lower  it.  I  sat 
across  the  stake,  took  a  firm  hold  with  both  hands, 
and  they  pulled  me  out.  It  was  when  Susie  saw  me 
after  I  was  safely  out  of  the  earth  that  she  screamed 
and  hid  her  face.  Poor  little  "  hired  girl ! "  I  must 
have  been  a  sight  to  make  the  hardiest  nerves  fail  — 
a  blackened,  swollen,  blistered,  leprous  thing  of  flesh 
and  clay. 

They  got  me  on  to  a  roll  of  blankets,  and  she 
made  her  father  lie  on  his  roll. 

The  water  had  evaporated  from  our  cans,  and  the 
snow  was  gone.  The  coyotes  had  made  way  with 
all  our  cooked  food,  and  the  horses  had  gotten  loose 
and  wandered  off.  Susie  and  her  father  consulted  in 
low  tones.  Susie  darted  over  to  her  horse,  and  her 
father  dragged  after  her.  I  looked  about  me. 
Where  was  that  can  of  stewed  peaches?  I  crawled 
off  the  blankets,  crawled  around  on  the  ground,  look 
ing  for  it.  The  coyotes  couldn't  open  a  mason  jar. 


The  Rescue  181 


I  found  it  under  a  clump  of  sagebrush.  They  had 
evidently  rolled  it  about,  and  fought  over  it.  I 
cracked  off  the  top  with  a  stone,  and  put  the  jar  to 
my  lips.  I  drank  till  I  was  Ashamed,  remember 
ing  our  old  man,  but  I  could  not  take  away  my  lips. 
I  saw  our  old  man  coming  back,  dragging  his  leg 
heavily.  Susie  had  ridden  away.  I  held  the  jar  out 
to  him.  He  took  it  and  drank,  and  then  we  both 
greedily  ate  the  peaches,  every  one  of  them.  We 
lay  back  on  our  blankets,  and  I  heard  the  old  man's 
faint  chuckle. 

"Well,  Billy,  we  made  it." 

"Wonder  if  they've  got  some  more  peaches." 

"  Likely ;  likely,  boy.  Leastwise  there'll  be  things 
that'll  taste  as  good." 

I  think  we  slept,  stretched  on  our  blankets  in  the 
fresh,  crisp  air  —  slept  and  waked  by  turns;  it  was 
good  to  stretch  out.  When  we  waked  sometimes  we 
compared  experiences. 

"  Can't  never  doubt  a  hereafter,  Billy,  after  that," 
our  old  man  said.  "We  went  right  straight  into 
another  world  that  got  awful  real  the  farther  we 
got  from  this  one." 

I  was  thinking  the  same  thing.  It  had  not  been  a 
nothingness  that  I  had  entered. 

Susie  came  at  last  with  Ed,  who  was  down  with 
supplies.  They  had  brought  a  farm  wagon  in  which 


182  Happy  Valley 

we  could  stretch  out.  Life  had  no  further  problems 
—  we  could  eat  and  drink  —  and  we  could  stretch 
out.  Susie  sat  like  one  stunned,  holding  her  father's 
head  in  her  lap,  bending  and  kissing  him  every  min 
ute,  and  looking  at  me  with  eyes  like  stars,  only  they 
didn't  twinkle  now.  I  had  thought  the  old  man  mis 
taken  about  Susie's  mother  ever  having  had  those 
star  eyes.  She  might  —  before  anxiety  took  the 
twinkle  out. 

They  stopped  with  us  at  Mother  Lattig's,  where 
Mrs.  Clark  and  her  other  daughters  were  waiting, 
and  they  all  wept  over  us,  and  bathed  us,  and  fed  us 
hot  soup,  while  Ed  swore  roundly  at  the  "dom 
country  "  and  declared  we  must  leave  it. 

The  Book- farmer  had  ridden  off  to  the  Q  Ranch 
to  telephone  for  a  doctor.  He  got  back  at  midnight. 
I  heard  his  horse's  hoofs,  and  then  his  message: 
"  You're  to  carry  them  both  to  the  Q  Ranch,"  he 
told  Mother  Clark  and  Mother  Lattig,  who  were 
sitting  up  with  us.  "  It's  Mr.  Regan's  orders.  I 
heard  him  give  the  telephone  order.  He  told  the 
doctor  to  ride  his  mounts  to  death,  if  necessary;  he's 
ordered  relays  all  along  the  road  from  Two  Forks. 
They  can't  get  a  car  through  the  tule  swamp." 

Mother  Clark  consented  at  once  to  our  going,  pro 
vided  she  could  go  along.  As  for  Susie,  she  had 
not  been  one  minute  separated  from  her  father; 


The  Rescue  183 


there  was  no  question  as  to  whether  or  not  she 
would  go. 

They  rigged  us  up  in  two  swinging  hammocks  of 
tent  canvas,  and  we  set  out,  Mother  Clark  in  the 
seat  by  Ed,  who  was  driving,  Susie  sitting  in  the 
bed  of  the  wagon,  holding  fast  to  her  father's  hand, 
her  steady  star  eyes  fixed  on  me. 


CHAPTER  XV 

BLUE    RIBBONS 

1  A  WOKE  in  a  bed ;  a  wide,  soft  bed  with  sheets. 
I  fingered  them  —  yes,  they  were  sheets  —  and 
a  room  with  walls  papered  prettily  in  dainty  cream- 
colored  paper.  Straight  across  from  me  was  a  win 
dow,  and  through  this  window  I  could  see  the  dead 
branches  of  trees;  and  away  beyond  the  trees  were 
twisting,  winding  rows  of  reddish  brown  willows; 
they  seemed  following  a  vagrant,  uncertain  stream. 
Where  was  the  stream  trying  to  get  to?  Funny 
stream,  why  did  it  try  to  get  anywhere  ?  There  was 
no  place  especial  you  could  go;  you  could  just  keep 
going.  But  the  stream  seemed  to  be  working  as 
hard  as  though  it  had  a  real  destination  in  view. 

A  figure  bent  over  me  —  two  beautiful  gray  eyes 
in  a  delicate  rose-tinted  oval  face  met  mine;  there 
was  a  nurse's  cap  —  and  then  it  all  came  back. 

"Feel  better,  don't  you,  to  be  all  nice  and  clean 
and  shaved?" 

"Did  they  leave  me  my  legs?"  I  remembered 
now ;  remembered  a  controversy.  I  had  insisted  on 
keeping  my  legs. 

184 


Blue  Ribbons  l&5 


The  nurse  laughed.  There  was  something  famil 
iar  in  the  low,  amused  laugh.  "Yes,  you've  got 
your  legs,  and  you're  going  to  keep  them."  She 
began  to  feed  me  out  of  a  spoon.  It  was  a  slow 
way,  but  I  didn't  care.  I  had  my  legs.  I  remem 
bered  it  all  now.  The  doctor  had  been  stubborn  — 
but  I  still  had  my  legs.  I  tried  to  move  them ;  they 
felt  stiff  and  awkward  in  their  splints. 

"How  is  our  old  man?" 

"He's  doing  fine,  too." 

"  He's  the  important  one  of  us.  He's  the  one  that 
matters."  Some  way  I  was  afraid  they  wouldn't 
look  after  him  just  right.  "  His  hip  is  bad,"  I 
explained.  "  Did  you  look  at  his  hip  ?  " 

"He's  a  wonderful  old  man,"  the  nurse  said. 
"  He's  a  great  old  man." 

"He's  the  important  one  of  us,"  I  reiter 
ated,  trying  to  sit  up.  "You  see,  there's  Susie 
and—." 

I  forgot  what  it  was  I  wanted  to  tell  her.  She 
said,  "Yes,  yes,"  and  drew  the  blind  and  urged  me 
to  sleep.  She  gave  me  a  spoonful  of  something.  I 
think  I  slept. 

The  next  thing  I  remember  was  when  he  came  in 
—  John  Regan,  the  man  who  had  put  the  Lattig- 
mother  responsibility  on  me;  who  had  said  that 
young  men  were  an  asset.  He  advanced  to  the  bed, 


186  Happy  Valley 


holding  out  his  strong,  brown  hand.  "  Well,  well," 
he  said  in  a  hearty  voice  that  some  way  had  a  world 
of  kindness  in  it.  "  So  it's  treating  you  pretty  rough 
—  this  pioneering.  But  you  kept  your  legs."  He 
laughed  sympathetically.  There  must  have  been 
quite  a  struggle.  He  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down, 
his  big,  strong,  firm  hand  still  holding  my  thin,  white 
one.  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  weakness.  Would  I 
ever  have  a  hand  like  that  ?  The  man  wasn't  much 
taller  than  I,  I  remembered;  I  had  as  much  of  a 
frame  —  would  I  ever  fill  it  out?  And  all  the  time 
he  was  looking  steadily  into  my  face  with  his  intent, 
blue-gray  eyes.  It  was  a  wholesome  sympathy  that 
he  sent  out;  a  strengthening  sympathy  without  any 
pity  in  it.  The  man's  presence  was  like  the  strong, 
keen  air  of  Happy  Valley.  There  was  strength  and 
courage  in  it. 

"You're  going  to  pull  through,  Billy,  and  be  all 
the  better  for  it,"  he  said,  dominatingly.  "  It  does 
something  to  a  man  —  an  experience  like  that. 
You'll  be  all  the  better  for  it." 

"  Not  richer,  though,"  I  protested,  more,  I  think, 
from  the  need  to  say  something  than  anything  else. 
"I'll  lose  my  claim.  I've  been  off  it  now  a  long 
time." 

"We'll  fix  that;  don't  you  worry.  Uncle  Sam 
is  pretty  good  when  it  comes  to  accidents.  We'll 


Blue  Ribbons  187 


look  out  for  your  claim.  You  just  have  a  real  good 
time  getting  well." 

He  drew  out  his  checkbook  and  signed  several 
checks.  He  tore  them  loose,  and  handed  them  to 
me.  "Just  fill  in  any  sum  you  might  be  needing. 
Maybe  there's  someone  back  East  you'd  like  to  send 
for  to  visit  with  you  while  you're  getting  well. 
Lizbeth  will  write  for  you." 

I  turned  away  my  face;  was  there  ever  such  a 
country  on  earth  ?  such  kindness  ?  such  people  ? 

"  There  isn't  anyone,"  I  choked  out.  "  I'm  not  of 
much  account  —  back  there.  I  guess  I'm  a  sort  of 
black  sheep.  People  back  East  are  —  different — to 
a  fellow  —  that's  down." 

''  They  never  had  much  chance,"  he  said  sort  of 
speculatively.  "They've  always  been  herded  back 
there  —  haven't  had  much  chance  to  think  straight 
out  of  life  and  for  themselves.  Make  an  excuse 
for  'em,  Billy,  and  forget  it.  Don't  ever  let  a  bitter 
thought  get  in.  It's  like  a  poison  weed  in  a  garden. 
They  never  had  much  chance.  And  as  for  that 
other  —  it's  queer  what'll  cure  a  man.  I've  tried  a 
lot  of  things  with  my  men.  Keeley  does  it  for  some. 
Starving  will  do  it  for  you.  Funny,  how  starving's 
a  cure  for  a  lot  of  things.  The  Indians  knew;  they 
starved — for  lots  of  things.  It's  a  stomach  disease 
—  and  this  has  taken  it  out  of  you,  you'll  find,  when 


188  Happy  Valley 

you're  about  again.  Might  as  well  stay  in  the 
country,  though,  till  you're  strong  as  a  mule." 

A  wonderful  light  flooded  me  —  the  starving 
might  have  done  it.  For  that  I  would  have  given 
up  —  my  legs.  I  couldn't  speak,  but  I  reached  out 
for  his  hand.  For  the  second  time  he  had  made  me 
strong. 

I  lay  quietly  hour  by  hour,  and  the  days  went  by. 
Sometimes  Susie  came  in;  Susie,  whose  eyes  had 
not  regained  their  twinkle.  Once  when  she  came 
and  no  one  was  in  the  room,  I  put  my  hand  out  to 
her.  She  quickly  took  it  and  impulsively  put  her 
head  down  on  my  breast.  "  Oh,  Billy ! "  That  was 
all  she  said.  She  cried  several  minutes.  I  stroked 
her  fair  hair  and  patted  her  heaving  shoulder.  It 
was  all  I  could  do  for  my  little  "  hired  girl."  Pres 
ently  she  dried  her  eyes  and  lifted  her  head.  Her 
eyes  were  brave,  but  Oh,  so  sad !  The  shock  had  not 
lifted.  Always  when  I  asked  about  her  father,  they 
told  me  he  was  doing  splendidly. 

One  day  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  queer  he  did 
not  come  to  see  me.  I  asked  Lizbeth,  the  nurse  with 
the  gray  eyes,  about  it.  She  was  a  niece  of  John 
Regan's ;  a  slim,  lively,  young  girl  with  a  ready  wit. 
I  liked  Lizbeth  tremendously.  She  said  funny 
things  sometimes  when  I  grew  restless,  and  she  par 
ticularly  wanted  me  to  lie  still.  She  would  threaten 


Blue  Ribbons 


189 


to  coil  up  and  zip  at  me  —  playing  rattlesnake  —  if 
I  so  much  as  moved.    We  were  good  pals.    I  asked 

her  why  our  old 
man  didn't  come 
to  see  me.  He 
had  been  able  to 
walk. 

"Well,  of  all  the 
nerve!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  One  sick 
man  wants  another 
to  visit  him.  Why 
don't  you  to  go  see 
him?"  And  then 
she  spoke  seriously. 
"We  think  it  best 
for  him  not  to  move 
around  for  awhile. 
His  will  kept  him 
going  when  it  was 
necessary." 

Mother  Clark 
came  to  see  me 

every  day,  and  al- 
Lizbeth       \i 

ways    her    eyes 

were  brave  and   sad  —  like   Susie's.     I  wondered 
if  ever  they  had  twinkled,  or  if  the  old  man  had 


190  Happy  Valley 

imagined  it.  She  always  stooped  and  kissed  me 
like  a  real  mother,  and  stroked  back  my  hair, 
slowly  and  tenderly,  with  her  hard,  calloused  hand. 
She  said  very  little.  She  seemed  preoccupied. 
Susie  sometimes  stayed  and  read  to  me,  but  Mother 
Clark's  visits  were  brief.  Already  Susie  and  Liz- 
beth  were  close  friends,  and  walked  about  with 
their  arms  around  each  other,  as  girls  will.  I 
wondered  if  Lizbeth  had  been  lonesome  for  a  girl 
of  her  own  age,  too.  She  was  older  than  Susie  — 
she  must  have  been  nearer  my  age.  But  Susie  looked 
older  these  days. 

One  day  I  asked  Lizbeth,  "  Could  you  get  me 
some  blue  ribbon?" 

She  looked  at  me  strangely. 

"I  want  some  —  I've  wanted  it  a  long  time,"  I 
said  peevishly. 

"Any  special  kind?"  she  asked,  still  watching 
me.  Then  she  put  her  fingers  on  my  pulse. 

"I'm  all  right,"  I  drew  away  crossly.  "I  just 
want  that  ribbon  —  the  kind  girls  make  into  bows 
for  their  hair." 

"Uncle  John  is  going  to  town  today,"  she  said. 
"You  can  give  him  any  commissions.  He's  not 
very  good  at  remembering  little  things  like  that,  but 
I'll  put  it  on  the  list.  He's  got  an  eye  to  get,  too." 

"An  eye?" 


Blue  Ribbons  191 


"Yes;  Lon's  glass  eye  exploded.  He  is  to  bring 
him  back  an  eye.  I'll  tell  him  about  the  ribbon." 

A  great  weight  lifted;  I  was  to  have  Susie's  hair 
ribbon. 

Another  woman  came  in  sometimes ;  she  was  fair 
and  blue-eyed  and  pretty.  She  laughed  a  good  deal 
and  said  funny  things,  too.  They  said  she  was  Mrs. 
Todd,  wife  of  Dave  Todd,  foreman  of  the  ranch. 

One  day  I  thought,  who  is  the  family  here?  I 
asked  Lizbeth.  "  It's  Uncle  John's  home,"  she  ex 
plained.  "  I  live  with  him  sometimes,  and  Mrs. 
Todd  runs  the  house,  and  then  there  are  the  men." 

I  wanted  to  know  what  men;  I  was  getting 
interested  in  the  world  about  me. 

"The  buckaroos  —  there  are  about  thirty,  and  the 
cook.  Lon  is  the  cook;  Lon  is  much  concerned 
about  his  two  invalids.  I  think  he  would  like  to 
come  and  see  you  when  he  gets  his  eye.  Lon  is  a 
proud  chap.  He  won't  come  without  his  eye.  He 
won't  wait  on  table.  Susie  does  it  for  him 
now." 

I  didn't  like  this.  "  Susie  is  my  little  hired  girl," 
my  lips  said  pettishly. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  she  hurried  to  agree.  "  She  is 
just  helping  Lon  out  at  the  cookhouse  —  till  he  gets 
his  eye.  You  wouldn't  expect  a  man  to  wait  on 
table  with  just  one  eye,  would  you?" 


192  Happy  Valley 

"Of  course  not,"  I  conceded. 

I  had  a  dim  impression  that  I  was  being  humored. 
I  shut  up. 

It  was  a  long  time  to  wait  for  the  ribbon,  but  it 
came  at  last.  Mr.  Regan  had  gone  in  the  car,  he 
explained  to  me  as  he  came  in,  and  got  stuck  in  the 
swamp  on  the  way  back;  the  roads  were  pretty  bad 
now ;  Dave  Todd  had  had  to  send  a  team  to  pull  him 
into  the  ranch.  I  accepted  his  explanation  of  the 
delay.  It  was  a  good  enough  excuse ;  but  I  couldn't 
accept  the  ribbon;  it  was  baby  ribbon,  a  bolt  of  it; 
I  pushed  it  away  in  disgust. 

"Poor  Uncle  John,"  Lizbeth  said,  while  I  still 
fumed  over  the  ribbon.  She  sighed.  "  He  did  his 
best,  but  he  never  thought  to  be  particular  about  the 
eye,  either,  and  Lon's  one  eye  is  large  and  light  blue, 
and  he  brought  him  a  small,  black,  shoe-button  one ; 
Lon's  mad,  too."  She  fingered  the  despised  baby 
ribbon.  " Uncle  John  did  his  best;  he  just  didn't 
know  —  about  eyes  and  hair  ribbon." 

I  was  partly  mollified. 

"And  Lon's  quit;  lit  out  for  town;  won't  be 
laughed  at  by  the  boys;  you  see  he  put  in  the  new 
eye,  and  the  boys  howled;  it  was  wrong  of  them  to 
howl.  Mrs.  Clark  is  to  cook  for  us  now." 

I  was  really  appeased,  but  I  couldn't  give  in  all 
at  once,  so  I  said  nothing. 


Blue  Ribbons  193 


The  days  wore  on.  Susie  came  in  one  morning, 
her  eyes  brighter. 

"Oh,  Billy,"  she  cried,  kneeling  beside  my  bed 
and  again  resting  her  head  on  my  breast.  "Oh, 
Billy,  we  are  all  so  happy." 

"Happy?"  I  echoed.  I  wondered  why,  especially. 

"Oh,  because  of  everything,  Billy.  You've  got 
your  title  to  your  ranch,  and  Pa's  got  his.  Uncle 
John  had  Uncle  Sam  fix  it  up.  You  don't  have  to 
go  back  to  it." 

"Uncle  John?" 

"We  all  call  him  that;  we  got  it  from  Lizbeth." 

I  remember  the  day  I  thought  with  embarrass 
ment  and  confusion  of  the  ribbons  I  had  ordered  for 
Susie.  I  surmise  that  was  the  day  the  fever  wholly 
left  me.  And  then  I  asked  for  a  mirror.  Lizbeth 
laughed  at  me. 

"  Conceited  old  thing,"  she  said. 

I  insisted  on  the  mirror. 

"  There  isn't  one  about,"  said  Lizbeth,  looking  all 
around  the  room.  "Funny  —  so  few  women  here, 
and  men  don't  generally  care  for  mirrors."  I  looked 
across  to  the  dresser;  the  mirror  had  been  taken 
away.  I  was  sure  there  had  been  one  when  I  first 
came  to  the  room.  I  said  so. 

"  Well,  we  had  to  fix  up  a  room  for  Mrs.  Clark 
and  Susie,  didn't  we?  This  is  Uncle  John's  best 


194  Happy  Valley 

guest  chamber.  We  couldn't  give  you  the  best  room 
and  its  furnishings,  too,  could  we?" 

"  Lizbeth,"  I  said,  "  you're  a  fine  girl  —  but  please 
let  me  know  the  worst.  What  do  I  look  like  ?  " 

"A  silly,  obstinate  man." 

What  had  happened  to  me?  My  face  had  not 
been  hurt  in  the  fall,  and  even  though  I  were  thin 
and  emaciated,  I  ought  not  to  be  too  frightful  a  sight 
for  my  own  eyes.  What  were  they  hiding?  I  ran 
my  hand  through  my  hair  in  an  effort  to  think.  My 
hair,  heavy  and  dark,  had  been  my  mother's  pride 
when  I  was  little;  it  had  been  a  football  mop  at 
Tech,  and  later  I  had  worn  a  Byronic  lock  over  my 
forehead.  People  had  said  I  looked  like  a  poet  or 
an  artist.  I  had  affected  the  pose  for  a  while.  I 
now  had  an  idea.  I  seized  several  hairs  and  pulled 
them  out.  They  were  snow  white.  I  hid  the  hairs 
and  did  not  again  ask  for  a  mirror. 

Susie  came  in  one  day  with  a  city  paper  in  her 
hand.  "  See,  Billy,"  she  said,  holding  a  full  illus 
trated  page  before  me,  "  we're  all  written  up !  " 

There  were  pictures  of  the  tents  and  an  extensive 
story  of  Tenttown.  I  wanted  to  read  it. 

"I'll  read  it  to  you,"  she  said,  taking  the  paper 
away  from  me.  She  read  me  the  account. 

"  A  newspaper  man  was  in  Two  Forks  writing  up 
the  country  when  you  were  rescued  from  the  well," 


Blue  Ribbons  195 


she  explained,  "and  he  came  on  down  to  get  the 
story;  then  he  went  on  into  Happy  Valley  to  see 
Tenttown.  It  will  probably  start  a  lot  of  settlers 
down  that  way.  Pa's  awfully  pleased." 

"When  am  I  to  see  him?"  I  demanded. 

"  Soon,  Billy,"  and  she  bent  and  kissed  my  head; 
then  she  went  out,  carrying  the  paper.  I  wanted  the 
paper. 

They  helped  me  out  of  bed  every  day  now,  and  I 
sat  by  the  window  for  hours  watching  the  naked 
brown  trees  and  the  far-off  hills.  I  had  not  known 
before  that  naked  trees  were  beautiful. 

Mr.  Regan  came  in  one  day.  "  Ever  drive  a 
car  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  Tom  wants  to  go  down  to  his  ranch ;  there 
will  be  quite  a  move  on  among  settlers  this  spring, 
and  Tom  feels  uneasy;  he's  been  off  his  claim  all 
winter ;  he  thinks  he  must  get  down,  too,  on  account 
of  his  mother.  I'm  wondering,  when  you  get 
stronger,  if  you  could  drive  my  car." 

"  I'd  like  the  chance.  I  wanted  to  put  a  crop  in 
this  spring  —  but — ."  I  glanced  over  my  emaciated 
person.  "  I'd  like  the  chance,  Mr.  Regan." 

"Then  you're  hired,  Billy;  you're  hired." 

I  handed  him  back  his  signed  checks.  "  I  don't 
need  them,"  I  exclaimed,  "except  to  pay  my  bills  — 


196  Happy  Valley 

there's  the  doctor  and  nurse  —  the  drug  store  — 
and  Van  Vader — they'll  maybe  wait  till  I  earn  it." 

"They'll  wait,  Billy."  He  held  the  checks  in  his 
hand  a  few  minutes,  then,  "  Maybe  you'd  like  to  pay 
them  up  and  be  in  debt  just  to  me." 

I  thought  it  over.  I  decided  to  do  it,  and  he 
returned  the  checks  to  me. 

At  last  they  said  I  could  go  down  stairs.  I  was 
impatient  to  get  out.  I  was  sure  my  legs  were 
sound,  and  I  wanted  to  touch  earth.  There  was  a 
feeling  of  spring  in  the  air  and  I  wanted  to  bathe  in 
it,  drink  it  deeply.  I  had  insisted  on  getting  out  for 
days,  and  at  last  Lizbeth  sat  down  beside  me  to  talk 
it  over. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "everyone  thought  you 
would  lose  both  legs;  you  fought  so  —  that  was  all 
that  decided  the  doctor  to  try  letting  you  keep  them ; 
you  fought  so  you  made  the  fever  worse;  it  was  a 
fight  for  your  life  any  way,  with  the  fever.  But 
you  kept  your  legs.  We  didn't  think  at  first  there 
was  any  such  danger  for  Mr.  Clark,  but  the  bruise 
had  affected  the  bone." 

I  sat  up  suddenly.  "Has  our  old  man  lost  his 
leg?"  I  demanded. 

"Yes,"  Lizbeth  admitted.  "You  see,  he  kept 
up  so  well  that  we  didn't  think  it  necessary  at  first, 
but  it  got  to  be  his  leg  or  his  life.  His  age  was 


Blue  Ribbons  197 


against  him,  though  he  is  so  healthy;  he's  pulled 
through,  though,  remarkably. " 

I  was  still  very  weak;  I  buried  my  face  in  my 
hands.  Poor  little  Susie,  poor  Mother  Clark,  what 
they  had  been  through !  She  put  her  arm  about  my 
shoulders;  Lizbeth  was  a  dear  girl;  I  would  have 
loved  a  sister  like  that.  "If  you  let  it  make  you 
sick,"  she  remonstrated,  "no  telling  when  you  will 
get  out.  And  it  will  do  him  good  to  see  you.  I 
thought  I  would  cut  your  hair  first  —  and  get  you 
all  fixed  up  nice  with  a  fresh  shave,  and  then — ." 

"Yes,  Lizbeth,  do.  I  know  it's  white  —  don't 
mind  me,  but  it  might  shock  our  old  man.  Cut  it, 
Lizbeth." 

He  was  on  the  porch  in  a  wheel  chair,  covered 
over  with  a  Navajo  blanket.  He  sat  up  and  called 
to  me,  as  I  hobbled  along  on  crutches,  for  they 
would  not  allow  me  to  put  my  weight  on 
my  feet. 

"Well,  well,  Billy,"  he  cried  cheerily,  "if  this 
ain't  like  old  times.  All  of  us  here  again.  Well, 
well,  Billy ! "  I  sat  down  beside  him  in  a  chair 
Lizbeth  had  made  ready,  and  our  hands  clasped. 
Susie  was  sitting  on  a  step  at  his  feet,  her  hand 
stroking  a  handsome  hound's  head,  her  star  'eyes 
fixed  on  me. 

"So  they  grayed  up  your  hair  a  bit,  old  man?" 


198  Happy  Valley 

He  brisked  into  it,  and  it  was  really  better  to  have 
it  over.  "And  took  one  of  my  legs — ." 

"  But  we're  still  here,"  I  chimed  in.  "  They  can't 
get  rid  of  us." 

Mr.  Regan  came  around  the  house,  a  broad  pater 
nal  smile  on  his  face,  his  blue-gray  eyes  shining. 
He  wore  a  bright  red  tie  and  a  wide  slouch  hat; 
but  though  dressed  conventionally,  otherwise  he 
looked  different  from  other  men.  His  picturesque- 
ness  was  not  a  matter  of  clothes  —  it  was  character. 

"  You're  the  kind  of  settlers  the  country  needs," 
he  said,  sitting  down  on  the  step  by  Susie,  and 
dropping  his  strong,  steady  hand  over  the  dog's 
shoulder.  :t  These  can't-do-it  settlers  can  pass  on 
as  fast  as  they  like,  but  you  stickers  —  well,  I  guess 
you're  fully  initiated  into  the  country  now."  He 
chuckled,  then  turned  to  me  and  asked  in  a  kindly, 
sympathetic  voice:  "  How  is  it,  Billy?  Feel  pretty 
good?" 

A  new  tenderly-happy  feeling  swept  over  me 
like  a  wave  of  soft,  warm  water.  "That's  it,"  I 
said  to  him,  "  I  do  feel  good." 

Susie  looked  up  from  the  hound  and  smiled 
bravely;  Susie,  with  her  poor  little  ribbons  faded 
out  white,  and  the  twinkle  still  absent  from  her 
star  eyes. 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LEPPIES,    AND   OTHER   THINGS 

DAY  melted  into  day,  and  the  soft  beauty  of 
spring  spread  over  the  land,  greening  it  up 
with  new  life  in  tules  and  grasses  and  willows. 
We  fitted  into  and  became  a  part  of  a  new  life  of 
our  own,  intensely  fascinating  and  unconsciously 
theatrical.  There  was  about  it  the  hazy  atmosphere 
of  a  dream  let  in  between  rock-ribbed  realities.  It 
was  a  play  on  which  the  curtain  might  ring  down 
at  any  moment,  leaving  a  stark-bare  stage  and  actors 
without  the  grease  paint. 

We  sat  on  the  wide  veranda  of  the  big,  white 
ranchhouse  known  as  The  Willows,  whose  spread 
ing  wings  symbolized  the  wide-spreading  protective- 
ness  of  its  owner's  sheltering  arms,  and  talked  lazily 
of  many  things.  We  rode  over  the  ranch  in  the 
car  —  our  old  man  and  I  —  and  we  hobbled  about 
on  our  crutches  to  the  cookhouse,  the  bunkhouse, 
the  blacksmith  shop,  old  Sody's  livestock  headquar 
ters,  the  dog  kennels,  and  every  other  place  where 
life  and  curiosity  attracted.  We  were  the  audience 
and  the  play  went  on  for  our  benefit.  And  they 

201 


202  Happy  Valley 

thought,  no  doubt  —  the  buckaroos,  Lizbeth,  Mrs. 
Todd,  Mr.  Regan  —  that  we  were  the  play  and  they 
the  audience.  We  were  the  sensation  that  circum 
stances  had  projected  into  the  quiet  routine  of  their 
days. 

It  was  quite  as  though  we  had  been  tossed  onto 
another  planet,  so  different  was  this  from  every 
other  phase  of  life  I  had  known;  so  different  from 
the  pioneer  life  among  the  homesteaders.  The  very 
physical  outlook  was  different  by  reason  of  shim 
mering-leafed  poplar  trees  which  hedged  us  in  from 
the  desert,  while  beyond,  green  willows  threaded 
the  paler  green  of  the  tule  swamp.  On  the  horizon, 
however,  lay  the  same  far-off  mystic  hills  bathed  in 
their  wonderful  lavender  and  gold. 

Our  compound  itself  was  unique.  The  great 
ranchhouse,  roomy  and  rambling,  was  a  network  of 
surprising  hallways  and  stairways  that  led  to  large, 
well-lighted  chambers.  Each  addition  might  have 
been  the  result  of  a  different  person's  whim,  but  the 
whole  was  somehow  consistent.  Semi-circularly 
about  the  ranchhouse  were  the  foreman's  house,  the 
bunkhouses,  the  store  building,  and  still  farther 
away  another  rambling  group  made  up  of  barns, 
corrals,  cattle  pens,  pig  pens,  smoke  houses,  chicken 
houses,  duck  ponds,  and  dog  kennels. 

At  five  each  morning  a  gong  waked  the  settle- 


Leppies,  and  Other  Things         203 

ment  to  activity.  Dogs  began  to  bark,  the  baying 
of  hounds  mixing  weirdly  with  the  viperish  snap 
ping  of  terriers  and  the  gruffer  notes  of  wolf  dogs 
in  which  there  was  a  strain  of  coyote.  Buckaroos 
emerged  from  bunkhouses  —  lithe,  bronzed,  young 
men,  with  an  occasional  grizzled  old  scout  who  had 
fought  in  Indian  wars,  and  there  was  one  ex-soldier 
who  had  been  a  West  Point  man.  The  buckaroo 
boss,  Raz  Poole,  was  a  blond  giant  under  thirty, 
with  a  sweet  tenor  voice  and  a  way  of  looking  out 
from  under  drooped  eyelids  that  left  you  wondering 
about  him. 

There  was  a  squat  little  Mexican  who  rolled  end 
less  cigarettes  and  was  excessively  polite.  Mex  had 
been  noted  over  the  whole  range  in  earlier  years  for 
his  way  of  calling  the  cattle.  He  had  a  never- 
wearying  song  and  it  could  be  heard  over  miles  of 
space.  The  cattle  listened  for  it.  It  kept  them 
easy  and  steady  on  a  long  drive.  Many  a  day,  Mr. 
Regan  told  me,  he  had  ridden  into  the  hills  just  to 
hear  old  Mex's  cattle  call  as  it  echoed  and  re-echoed 
from  glade  to  glade. 

Old  Sody,  I  think,  was  the  most  important  person 
on  the  Q  Ranch  —  Old  Sody,  chief  of  the  leppies, 
with  his  wall  eyes  that  peered  nearsightedly,  tooth 
less  gums,  short,  rapid  steps,  all  the  dogs  at  his  heeis 
and  a  "leppy"  under  his  arm.  The  little  orphan 


204 


Happy  Valley 


things  were  called  "  leppies,"  a  corruption,  so  far  as 
I  could  determine,  from  "left"  or  "lefty"  —  any 
little  young  thing  left  without  its  natural  protectors. 
Chickens,  pigs,  colts, 
calves,  mules,  dogs,  kit 
tens —  they  were  all 
adopted  by  old  Sody, 
who  knew  them  like 
children  and  loved  them 
as  well.  I  don't  think 
a  group  of  us  ever  sat 
talking  quietly  together 
that  old  Sody  didn't 
come  tearing  wildly  onto 
the  scene  with,  "Duck 
lost  —  anybody  seen  a 
little,  yellow  duck  with 
one  eye?  Duck  lost  — 
duck  lost."  Or  maybe 
it  would  be  a  setting  hen 
that  had  gone  astray,  or 
a  pup  that  hadn't  come  in  for  his  milk. 

No  one  laughed  at  old  Sody.  He  would  pass  on, 
muttering  to  himself,  his  eyes  wildly  excited,  hardly 
waiting  to  hear  the  suggestion  that  the  tules  or  the 
willows  probably  held  the  renegade.  He  had  dug 
a  fortune  out  of  Alaska  and  he  had  lost  it  in  A'ri- 


Old  Sody 


Leppies,  and  Other  Things         205 

zona  borax;  and  now  he  took  care  of  little  "  leppies  " 
for  his  board  and  bed  and  the  good  of  his  soul. 

A  Dutchman  was  putting  away  hog  meat  in  one  of 
the  outhouses;  a  big,  heavy,  slow  Dutchman,  who 
tasted  ponderously  and  brought  frequent  tastings 
to  Mrs.  Todd.  The  weight  of  nations  rested  on  a 
decision  between  less  spice  and  more  sage.  You 
would  have  believed  it  had  you  seen  the  foreman's 
wife  as  she  tasted  and  tasted,  her  head  to  one  side, 
her  forehead  puckered  into  a  frown.  She  was 
a  wonderful  little  woman,  Mrs.  Todd,  a  born 
diplomat. 

Camped  in  one  of  the  cabins  was  a  family  that 
seemed  always  to  have  belonged  to  the  Q  Ranch, 
though  they  had  recently  come  in  from  chopping 
wood  in  the  hills.  There  was  old  Hank,  long-faced, 
sad-eyed,  and  gloomy,  and  old  Nance,  his  wife,  a 
lean,  bony  structure  with  a  voice  that  grated  like  a 
file  but  ruled  her  household.  Numerous  grand 
children  clung  to  the  two  for  support,  and  old  Nance 
was  not  above  playing  favorites.  Every  morning 
after  the  gong  and  the  yowling  and  howling  of  the 
dogs  came  her  sharp  voice:  "Dan,  you  son  of  a 
gun,  hit  the  plank!"  And  almost  immediately: 
"  Trudy,  Trudy  dear,  hadn't  you  better  get  up  ? " 
Mrs.  Todd  insisted  that  in  spite  of  her  peculiarities, 
old  Nance  was  sound  at  the  core. 


206  Happy  Valley 

My  first  introduction  to  old  Hank  was  the  day 
he  got  in  from  the  hills.  All  afternoon  he  sat  on 
the  porch  in  gaunt,  watery-eyed  silence  waiting  for 
Mr.  Regan  who  was  expected  back  from  Two  Forks. 
Now  and  then  he  would  lift  his  hard,  brown  arm 
and  draw  his  coarse,  blue  gingham  shirtsleeve  across 
his  eye,  then  the  arm  would  drop  heavily  to  his  side. 
At  last  the  car  arrived  and  Mr.  Regan  came  briskly 
up  the  walk.  His  smile  broadened  and  his  Irish 
blue  eyes  lighted  up  when  he  saw  old  Hank.  "  Well, 
well,  Hank,"  he  said,  putting  out  his  hand,  "how 
are  you?"  Hank  limply  gave  him  his  hand  but  his 
gloomy  face  did  not  lighten. 

"John,"  he  said,  "John,  do  you  think  wood- 
choppin's  goin'  to  run  out?" 

I  went  on  to  the  car,  for  I  was  to  take  the  fore 
man  over  the  ranch,  but  neither  could  I  smile  any 
more  than  had  Regan  as  he  sat  down  to  talk  things 
over  with  the  old  retainer.  For  thirty  years  he  had 
chopped  the  Q  Ranch  wood.  The  indictment  had 
filled  him  with  uneasiness.  Suppose  wood-chopping 
should  run  out! 

When  we  got  back  from  our  drive  there  was  a 
big  excitement.  Everyone  on  the  ranch  had  col 
lected  about  a  foaming  horse  and  his  rider  —  Old 
Sody  with  a  "  leppy  "  pig  squealing  under  his  arm, 
and  toothless  mouth  agape,  the  Mexican  with  a  half- 


Leppies,  and  Other  Things         207 

rolled  cigarette,  Susie  and  Lizbeth  with  horrified 
faces.  The  foreman's  pretty  wife  stood  noncha 
lantly  in  the  porch  as  one  who  had  lived  her  life 
in  the  midst  of  disasters  and  was  not  to  be  upset  by 
them.  We  climbed  out  of  the  car  and  hurried  to 
the  group.  I  had  recognized  the  Book-farmer. 

There  was  bad  news  from  Happy  Valley.  Some 
one  had  set  fire  to  the  Dutchman's  barn  and  tool- 
shed.  It  had  happened  in  the  night  when  everyone 
was  sleeping  soundly.  Six  of  the  horses  had  had 
to  be  shot;  two  were  dead  before  the  fire  was  dis 
covered.  When  the  Book- farmer  left,  the  Dutch 
man  was  sitting  on  a  nail  keg  with  his  head  in  his 
hands,  saying  over  and  over  to  himself:  "I  vas 
dwendy  years  saving  for  it;  dwendy  years." 

Our  old  man,  resting  on  his  crutches,  shook  his 
head  sadly,  while  Mother  Clark  cried  in  her  apron. 

"Poor  Leeda,"  Susie  said.  "Oh,  poor  Leeda!" 
She  went  on  to  explain  to  Lizbeth  that  she  and 
Leeda  had  planned  to  go  away  to  school  that  winter, 
the  only  difference  being  that  Leeda  had  been  sure 
of  going  and  she  wasn't.  "And  I  was  envying 
Leeda."  She  gulped  and  turned  away. 

"  That  pretty  white  mare  with  the  star  in  her  fore 
head  that  he  bought  of  Tom  Lattig  —  was  that  one 
killed,  too?"  our  old  man  wanted  to  know. 

"Who  is  suspected?"  Mr.  Regan  asked. 


208 Happy  Valley     

"A  white-skinned  man  —  waxy  —  with  a  black 
mustache  and  yellow  in  his  eyes.  He  located  on  a 
ranch  on  south.  He  passed  through  that  afternoon 
on  his  way  to  Two  Forks.  He  asked  for  dinner, 
but  the  Dutchies  were  all  busy;  they  told  him  he 
could  go  in  the  kitchen  and  cook  something  for  him 
self.  It  seemed  to  make  him  mad.  That's  the  only 
clue." 

The  description  was  that  of  the  man  Bullpit  had 
brought  into  the  country  to  jump  my  claim. 

"  Boys,  I  gotta  get  back,"  said  our  old  man,  be 
ginning  to  move  about  on  his  crutches,  "I  see  I 
gotta  get  back." 

"Oh,  pa!  What  can  you  do?"  Mother  Clark 
took  her  apron  from  her  reddened  eyes. 

"I  gotta  get  back,"  he  repeated  excitedly. 

"  Yes,  Clark,  you've  got  to  get  back,"  agreed  Mr, 
Regan.  "There  isn't  any  other  way;  you've  got  to 
get  back." 

We  all  looked  at  him  blankly.  His  eyes  were 
meeting  Clark's ;  the  two  men  seemed  to  understand 
each  other. 

"It  would  have  burned  just  the  same  if  you'd 
been  there,"  persisted  Mother  Clark.  She  seemed 
to  dread  ever  re-entering  Happy  Valley. 

"  I  gotta  get  back."  Our  old  man  began  hobbling 
toward  the  porch.  He  seemed  on  the  point  of  start- 


Lepples,  and  Other  Things         209 

ing  at  once.  Mr.  Regan  was  talking  with  Dave 
Todd.  He  was  instructing  him  to  get  up  two  good 
teams  to  send  down  to  the  Dutchman  so  he  could 
go  on  with  his  ranch  work.  "He  mustn't  leave," 
I  overheard  him  say  to  Dave.  "Tell  the  Book- 
farmer  he's  to  call  on  us  for  whatever  he  needs  to 
see  him  through.  He  mustn't  leave  the  country." 

He  went  back  to  the  porch  and  sat  down  by  our 
old  man.  I  joined  them.  Mother  Clark  had  gone 
on  to  the  cookhouse,  Susie  and  Lizbeth  following 
her. 

"  I've  been  thinking  some  days,"  said  Mr.  Regan, 
drawing  a  chair  up  to  our  old  man,  "  that  it's  mighty 
hard  on  the  homesteaders  going  down  into  Happy 
Valley  and  on  south  to  find  their  land,  then  driving 
clear  back  to  Two  Forks  to  file.  We  ought  to  have 
a  commissioner  down  there.  We  ought  to  get  the 
county  to  appoint  a  commissioner.  I  think  the  filing 
fee  is  two  dollars  and  a  half ;  I'm  told  they  are  filing 
at  the  rate  of  two  or  three  a  day.  Yes,  we've  got 
to  have  a  commissioner  down  there."  He  was  look 
ing  at  our  old  man  intently. 

"I'd  hate  awful  bad  to  take  the  money  when  a 
man's  gettin'  him  a  piece  o'  land,  but — ." 

"It's  the  only  way,  Clark;  you're  right;  you'd 
better  go  back  and  be  commissioner.  I'll  see 
about  it." 


210  Happy  Valley 

It  was  arranged  that  Susie  should  go  with  her 
father  while  Mother  Clark  should  remain  at  the 
cookhouse  for  a  while  longer.  Mr.  Regan  needed 
a  cook,  and  the  Clarks  needed  the  money;  and  so, 
though  a  break  in  this  little  family  was  a  real 
tragedy  to  each  one  of  the  three,  still,  because  of 
dire  necessity,  the  plan  was  accepted.  There  was 
one  compensation  for  the  departure  of  my  little 
hired  girl :  that  evening  Bullpit  arrived  at  the  Q 
Ranch;  Bullpit  in  the  glory  of  new  clothes  and 
leather  trappings.  I  looked  quickly  to  Mr.  Regan 
as  I  recognized  the  rider  who  stopped  at  the  gate. 
My  subconscious  mind  connected  the  fire  some  way 
with  him,  possibly  because  I  connected  the  waxy- 
faced  homesteader  with  him.  I  wondered  if  Mr. 
Regan  would  not  order  him  off  the  ranch.  But  some 
what  to  my  surprise  he  was  received  courteously. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SORROW    IN    THE   VALLEY 

MY  FIRST  impression  on  meeting  John  Regan 
had  been  that  here  was  a  most  picturesque 
character,  the  pure  type  of  the  western  cattleman. 
After  his  treatment  of  me  and  the  Clarks,  I  put 
him  down  as  a  very  prince  of  generosity.  As  we 
drove  together  over  the  long  roads  day  after  day 
alone  in  the  car,  the  sheer  force  of  the  man  began 
to  loom  monumental.  Here  was  a  mind  and  a  heart 
and  an  understanding  of  conditions  all  over  the 
country  and  of  humanity,  such  as  I  had  not  met 
before  in  anyone.  He  was  not  a  type,  he  was  a 
gigantic  exception. 

My  grandfather  was  a  man  of  keen  intellect,  an 
astute  lawyer,  a  just  judge,  a  product  of  the  best 
schools  and  the  widest  experience  in  metropolitan 
affairs,  but  he  seemed  a  pigmy  in  comparison.  I 
now  knew  that  he  lacked  an  intense  and  penetrating 
human  sympathy  which  is  as  illuminating  on  human 
problems  as  light  on  darkness.  Here  was  a  man 
who  sensed  the  most  subtle  phases  of  a  situation,  a 
man  who  had  never  gone  to  school,  who  had  not 

211 


Uncle  John  Regan 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley 


213 


read  books,  but  who  knew  life  and  people  as  my 
grandfather  his  law. 

After  I  had  ridden  about  with  him  for  a  week,  I 
felt  that  whatever  he  undertook  must  eventually 
come  to  pass  —  barring  illness  or  death.  Things 
would  have  to  capitulate  to  John  Regan;  he  would 
never  capitulate  to  things.  His  huge  frame,  his 
square,  well-filled-out  shoulders,  his  strong,  solid 
thighs  composed  the  proper  engine  for  the  use  of 
the  tremendous  force  which  was  himself. 

No  one  took  liberties  with  him  —  everyone  felt 
his  superiority  —  hence  it  never  became  necessary 
for  him  to  wear  that  austerity  which  is  the  cloak  for 
lesser  natures.  As  he  stood  talking  with  some  idle 
citizen  on  a  street  corner  in  Two  Forks,  a  little 
child,  running  along  with  his  red  wagon,  would 
rub  up  against  him,  throw  chubby  arms  about  his 
leg,  and  stand  there  as  if  he  felt  protected.  Uncon 
sciously  Regan's  hand  would  go  down  to  the  little 
head;  he  would  pat  the  sun-  and  wind-roughened 
cheek,  and  the  child  would  run  happily  along.  Men 
approached  him  with  equal  readiness,  especially  men 
in  trouble. 

A  trampish-looking  man  accosted  him  one  day, 
and  I  stepped  aside,  thinking  the  man  wanted  the 
price  of  a.  drink;  but  he  only  wanted  work.  We 
moved  on  —  after  Regan  had  told  him  to  get  a 


214  Happy  Valley 

horse  from  Van  Vader  and  report  at  the  Q  Ranch. 
I  found  later  that  the  man  had  just  finished  a  term 
in  the  penitentiary  for  cattle  stealing,  and  it  had 
been  Regan's  cattle  he  had  stolen.  But  Regan  had 
been  the  one  to  whom  he  applied  for  work  when  he 
got  out  of  jail  and  Regan  had  again  trusted  him. 
We  took  home  with  us  on  the  same  trip  two  men 
who  had  returned  from  a  drink-cure  institute.  Good 
men,  Regan  explained  to  me,  but  they  couldn't  keep 
sober.  He  had  sent  them  away  for  the  cure  and 
he  was  giving  them  another  chance.  I  understood 
now  some  pictures  I  had  seen  on  the  bunkhouse 
walls;  rudely-colored  prints  of  men  in  various  dis 
gusting  states  of  intoxication.  He  was  not  above 
the  silent  object  lesson  and  he  was  not  beneath  more 
heroic  measures. 

All  spring,  settlers  came  into  the  country.  The 
land  craze  was  getting  them  —  also  the  talk  of  a 
railroad  of  which  we  constantly  heard  vague  ru 
mors.  The  back-to-the-land  movement  was  putting 
businesses,  houses,  and  minor  possessions  into 
prairie  schooners,  teams,  and  plows.  With  each 
outfit  that  we  passed,  Mr.  Regan  grew  more  serious. 
Sometimes  he  would  sink  into  a  silence  that  would 
last  for  hours.  Often  he  would  come  out  of  it  with 
a  story  of  early  days  which  he  told  in  a  way  that 
was  all  a  part  of  his  genius.  Always  as  you  finished 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley 


215 


your  laugh  with  the  humorist  you  became  gravely 
thoughtful  with  the  philosopher. 

Through  him  I  came  at  last  fully  to  know  the 
country  I  was  in.  The  awakening  was  a  strange 
experience.  It  was  like  seeing  eyes  back  of  the 
closed  blinds  of  an  old  building  one  has  regarded 
as  tenantless.  John  Regan  opened  the  blinds.  Al 
ways  I  had  thought  of  the  country  as  new,  virgin, 
and  untouched.  I  now  learned  that  it  was  an  old 
country  over  which  battles  had  been  fought,  nearly 
every  section  of  which  had  been  wet  with  human 
blood. 

The  fence  laws  of  California  started  its  settle 
ment,  it  seemed.  Cattlemen  had  been  driven  north 
in  the  late  seventies  in  search  of  open  range.  They 
found  it  in  this  great  closed-in  empire;  it  was  an 
immense  country  with  quantities  of  wild  grass  and 
an  abundance  of  water.  To  find  this  cattle  man's 
Eden  was  to  appropriate  it.  A  few  of  the  hardiest 
—  and  hardest  —  acquired  large  tracts  of  land  from 
the  government,  and  defied  encroachment.  Weaker 
men  who  were  lured  in  by  the  richness  of  the  coun 
try  and  the  hope  of  railroads  were  forced  out.  Set 
tlers  were  not  wanted;  settlers  fenced;  settlers 
interfered  with  range  and  water.  In  time  the 
powerful  cattle  companies  controlled  the  whole 
country. 


216  Happy  Valley 

Young  John  Regan  —  not  yet  twenty  —  came  over 
the  mountains  from  a  coast  valley  in  Western  Ore 
gon,  driving  a  small  band  of  cattle.  His  father  —  a 
cattleman  and  rancher  —  when  crossing  the  plains 
in  the  forties  had  passed  through  the  great  sweeping 
valleys  of  the  inland  empire  and  had  never  forgot 
them.  Years  later,  when  his  youngest  boy  was 
ready  to  start  for  himself,  and  his  own  health  fail 
ing,  with  little  to  give  but  advice,  he  took  this  son 
to  the  top  of  the  Cascade  Mountains,  and  pointing 
across  to  the  plains  country  that  lay  to  the  east,  he 
said,  "Go,  my  son,  go  over  there  where  there  is 
room  to  grow."  He  had  vision  and  he  saw  the 
country's  future. 

And  so  John  Regan  went.  In  time  he  got  hold  of 
land  and  he  traded  in  cattle.  When  his  growth  be 
came  noticeable,  when  he  seemed  likely  as  a  coming 
cattleman,  he  received  attractive  offers  to  leave  the 
country,  as  had  others  before  him.  One  man  offered 
him  forty  thousand  dollars  in  gold  to  get  out. 

But  Regan  stuck ;  he  stuck  through  the  early  gun 
days,  those  days  of  continual  range  fights  between 
settler  and  cattle  man.  He  saw  man  after  man  run 
out  of  the  country  for  committing  the  crime  of 
accepting  Uncle  Sam's  offer  to  make  a  home  for 
himself  on  Government  land.  He  saw  bloodshed; 
but  still  he  stuck.  His  enemies  were  powerful  cattle 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley  217 

companies  with  unlimited  capital  and  without  scru 
ple.  They  had  the  idea  firmly  fixed  that  the  coun 
try  was  all  theirs;  that  anyone  who  tried  to  get  a 
foothold  was  their  natural  enemy.  But  Regan  was 
strong  in  body  and  spirit,  fearless,  and  a  natural 
born  handler  of  men;  also  he  was  a  natural  born 
fighter.  They  didn't  always  get  the  best  of  him. 

After  years  of  fight  came  his  great  opportunity. 
The  owner  of  the  Q  Ranch,  the  cattleman  most 
hated  by  the  settlers  and  the  leader  of  the  perpetual 
war  on  them,  got  a  bullet  between  his  shoulders  one 
day  and  fell  headlong  from  his  horse.  This  put  the 
Q  Ranch  on  the  market ;  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand  acres,  much  of  it  tule  swamp,  but  more  in 
natural  hay.  It  became  a  question  who  should  own 
this  ranch,  who  dared  own  it,  who  was  there  that  no 
settler  wanted  to  kill?  Before  the  other  big  cattle 
companies  realized  that  he  was  a  real  competitor 
in  so  huge  a  venture,  John  Regan  had  acquired 
control  of  the  ranch. 

Many  flattering  offers  followed  —  and  inviting  to 
a  young  man  all  alone  with  a  heavy  indebtedness. 
He  could  not  see  his  way,  but  he  staggered  on  alone. 
He  refused  to  enter  the  combination  against  the  set 
tlers.  The  gauntlet  was  thrown  down  from  that 
hour.  They  put  every  conceivable  obstacle  in  his 
path;  they  used  unlimited  power  and  money  to 


218  Happy  Valley 

hamper  him.  The  several  big  companies  interested 
in  preserving  the  open  range  now  consolidated 
under  one  name,  the  Oceanic  Cattle  Company.  This 
gave  them  a  solid  front  with  which  to  resist  invasion. 
They  issued  an  ultimatum  that  John  Regan  or  his 
buckaroos  could  no  longer  ride  the  range  with  their 
buckaroos,  that  he  could  not  gather  in  his  cattle 
with  them,  nor  would  he  be  shown  any  of  the  usual 
amenities  of  the  range. 

The  monopoly  by  the  Oceanic  Company  of  all  the 
waste  water  from  the  Two  Forks  River  had  long 
appealed  to  John  Regan  as  unjust  to  the  settlers. 
The  Oceanic  Company  based  their  claim  on  the  old 
English  riparian  law  that  water  must  be  allowed  to 
flow  as  it  will,  unpolluted  and  undiminished.  John 
Regan  disputed  their  claim  in  the  courts.  The 
smaller  settlers  were  eagerly  with  him  at  the  open 
ing  of  the  fight,  but  after  giving  their  evidence  they 
began  to  compromise  with  the  Oceanic  Cattle  Com 
pany,  accepting  whatever  they  were  offered  rather 
than  go  on  with  litigation.  The  case  was  in  the 
courts  three  years,  with  a  final  victory  for  John 
Regan.  The  development  of  the  country  through 
irrigation  and  settlement  had  always  been  his  idea 
of  its  future.  He  believed  that  the  Two  Forks 
River  could  be  made  to  irrigate  a  large  territory. 
He  put  surveyors  into  the  field  and  proved  this  to  be 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley  219 

true.     Then  he  got  an  option  to  put  the  water  on 
the  land  under  a  government  act. 

The  Oceanic  Cattle  Company  fought  him  con 
sistently.  Lawsuits  were  instituted  on  the  slightest 
pretext.  He  was  again  approached  with  flattering 
offers;  they  came  even  from  Alaska;  all  the  world 
was  made  attractive  to  him  save  his  own  cattle 
range.  And  still  he  went  on  with  his  stubborn  fight 
for  irrigation  and  settlement.  One  day  when  mak 
ing  a  short  cut  across  Oceanic  Cattle  land  he  met 
Cruikshank,  the  company's  superintendent.  He  had 
fought  Regan  for  many  years,  and  now  Regan  was 
gaining  on  him.  He  was  nerve-racked  and  grouchy. 
He  ordered  Regan  off :  "  Never  again  set  foot  on 
Oceanic  Cattle  land,"  he  commanded. 

"Very  well,"  John  Regan  answered,  "but  any 
time  you  find  it  convenient  don't  hesitate  to  cross 
my  land." 

The  fight  took  a  personal  turn.  It  was  now 
between  man  and  man.  All  these  years  Regan  had 
been  like  a  little  young  growing  thing  in  a  prize 
ring.  He  had  used  all  his  diplomacy  to  keep  his 
back  from  being  broken  while  he  was  growing  up. 
He  now  began  to  strike  some  blows.  It  was  a  period 
in  the  country's  history  when  everyone  was  discour 
aged.  The  range  was  eaten  out  and  there  was  no 
profit  in  the  stock  business.  Many  smaller  cattle- 


220  Happy  Valley 


men  had  debts  to  carry  and  they  were  glad  to  sell 
out.  Settlers  who  had  come  in  bent  on  farming, 
confidently  expecting  a  railroad,  were  unable  to  get 
the  price  of  haul  out  of  their  crops.  Railroads  had 
been  promised,  time  and  again,  but  only  surveyors 
materialized.  That  very  summer  of  keenest  dis 
couragement  fifteen  crews  were  busy  at  one  time  in 
the  inland  empire. 

Already  heavily  in  debt,  knowing  the  exact  situa 
tion,  but  unwilling  to  quit  the  struggle,  Regan  drew 
paper  against  himself  on  thirty  and  sixty  days'  time 
and  bought  more  land.  He  acquired  a  space  of 
country  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  wide,  cutting 
in  between  the  big  Oceanic  Cattle  ranches.  They 
found  themselves  in  the  position  of  not  being  able 
to  get  a  camping  place  without  asking  him  a  favor. 

He  now  began  to  suffer  that  punishment  which  is 
the  hardest  on  earth  to  bear :  The  powerful  Oceanic 
Cattle  Company  made  it  known  to  merchants  of 
Two  Forks  that  their  friendship  for  John  Regan 
would  be  interpreted  as  enmity  to  them.  Oceanic 
Cattle  bought  more  goods  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
country  put  together.  The  merchants  were  de 
pendent  on  them.  Oceanic  Cattle  let  it  be  known 
that  they  would  run  any  man  out  of  the  country  who 
showed  friendship  for  John  Regan.  And  Two 
Forks  was  not  strong  enough  to  rise  up  and  take 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley  221 

John  Regan's  side;  Oceanic  Cattle  did  nothing  to 
develop  the  country;  they  dug  no  ditches,  drained 
no  swamps,  farmed  no  land,  built  no  houses,  and 
steadily  fought  all  plans  for  development;  but 
Regan's  business  was  not  a  drop  in  the  bucket  to 
theirs.  And  so  Regan's  old  neighbors  began  to  pass 
him  on  the  street  with  heads  down,  while  all  the 
time  they  watched  him  covertly,  paying  him  the 
secret  tribute  of  a  mighty  respect. 

Alone  he  went  his  way.  His  plan  was  the  settle 
ment  of  the  country,  for  people  would  bring  rail 
roads  and  railroads  would  mean  moved  crops  and 
prosperity.  The  only  hope  was  to  break  up  the  isola 
tion.  Irrigation  ditches  would  bring  in  large  colo 
nies  of  people  and  people  would  compel  a  railroad. 
John  Regan's  fight  to  wrest  control  of  the  water 
from  Oceanic  Cattle  was  with  the  idea  of  construct 
ing  such  ditches ;  the  Tule  Valley  canal  had  been  the 
first  attempt.  Oceanic  Cattle  had  —  through  the 
government  agent  who  had  been  set  on  by  Bullpit  — 
stopped  the  canal.  Bullpit  had  pointed  the  way  to  a 
trouble-hunting  agent,  but  the  way  had  been  pointed 
in  turn  for  Bullpit  by  the  powerful  Oceanic  Cattle 
Company.  They  had  Regan  cornered  now;  they 
had  got  him  indicted  and  stopped  his  canal ;  but  the 
next  move  would  be  his. 

All  that  summer  I  drove  Mr.  Regan's  car.     We 


222  Happy  Valley 

always  called  at  every  little  shack  to  make  sure  that 
no  one  was  in  trouble.  I  could  not  pass  a  well  with 
out  looking  into  it. 

As  autumn  came  on  a  protest  arose  here  and  there 
against  the  lack  of  schools.  Mothers  on  isolated 
ranches  were  beginning  to  worry  over  the  possibility 
of  their  children  growing  up  in  ignorance.  Mr. 
Regan  became  seriously  concerned.  The  children 
must  have  a  school.  They  must  not  pay  the  penalty 
of  their  parents'  pioneering.  Every  American  child 
was  entitled  to  schooling.  At  the  end  of  a  long 
day's  drive  early  in  September  he  outlined  his  plan 
to  me. 

"We'll  apply  for  a  school  district,  Billy;  it  will 
have  to  be  about  sixty  miles  long,  I  figure,  to  take  in 
all  the  children  scattered  over  this  country  up  to 
Wind  Mountain.  You  go  to  work  on  that,  Billy. 
Make  an  application  to  the  county  court  for  a  school 
district." 

"But  how  can  children  go  to  school  over  a  dis 
trict  sixty  miles  long?"  I  objected. 

"  We'll  have  to  centralize  the  school,  Billy.  We'll 
have  it  at  the  Q  Ranch.  We'll  keep  the  children 
there  while  they  go  to  school." 

There  were  not  more  than  twenty  children  alto 
gether,  but  it  was  a  good  many  to  house  and  bed  and 
feed.  However,  that  problem  was  up  to  Lizbeth. 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley  223 

Lizbeth  put  her  head  on  one  side  when  I  told  her 
about  it  and  her  large,  gray  eyes  filled  with  tender 
amusement.  "I'm  only  glad  he  isn't  asking  their 
parents  to  come  along,"  she  said.  Then,  "  Dear 
Uncle  John,  he  would  take  them  all  in  if  he  could." 
Lizbeth  had  just  one  passion,  her  Uncle  John.  She 
went  to  work  on  the  problem  and  turned  two  of  the 
largest  rooms  into  a  dormitory,  moved  in  cots,  and 
prepared  to  house  our  school  children  while  I  got 
the  district  organized  and  put  the  plan  before  the 
parents.  We  found  a  teacher,  a  young  woman  who 
had  quit  college  in  her  senior  year  to  take  up  a 
homestead  and  was  glad  of  a  chance  to  earn  money 
while  holding  down  her  claim.  In  appearance  she 
was  of  a  thin,  delicate  pink  and  whiteness  that  made 
me  think  of  fine  china,  but  she  was  an  intelligent 
young  person,  and  lively,  and  I  foresaw  that  she 
and  Lizbeth  would  make  a  great  team.  I  wondered 
about  the  very  good-looking  buckaroo  boss,  Raz 
Poole,  who  rode  away  each  morning  singing  of  his 
lady  fair ;  Lizbeth's  and  Susie's  eyes  had  had  a  way 
of  following  him.  Would  the  pink  and  white 
teacher's  eyes  follow  him  too  ?  Would  Bullpit  come 
fussily  about,  displaying  his  leather  calves  and  pre 
senting  his  fly-specked  boxes  of  candy  ?  Bullpit  was 
still  locating  occasional  homesteaders  and  this 
brought  him  frequently  to  the  Q  Ranch,  the  only; 


224  Happy  Valley 

stopping  point  between  Two  Forks  and  Happy 
Valley.  He  blissfully  ignored  my  presence.  It  was 
just  as  well. 

Mother  Clark  had  to  have  additional  help  with  her 
family  of  school  children,  so  I  set  out  to  find  the 
right  person.  Perhaps  some  homesteader's  wife  or 
daughter  especially  needed  a  chance  to  earn  some 
thing.  In  the  search  I  drove  over  Wind  Mountain 
into  Happy  Valley  for  the  first  time  since  I  was 
carried  out  of  it.  The  Dutchman's  ranch  was  a 
sorry  sight  with  work  at  a  standstill  and  the  black 
ened  remains  of  his  barn  testifying  to  disaster.  I 
found  the  Dutchman  sitting  moodily  in  his  doorway, 
staring  into  space.  To  cheer  him  I  spoke  of  his 
pigs.  No  one  in  the  valley  had  so  many  squealing, 
squirming  young  pigs.  "  My  vife,  she  raise  more 
pigs  dan  any  body  else,"  he  said.  It  was  a  mo 
mentary  return  of  his  former  pride  in  his  posses 
sions  ;  but  he  lapsed  at  once  into  morose  silence.  I 
drove  on  to  the  Clark's  and  Susie  came  running  to 
meet  me.  She  got  in  and  settled  comfortably  down 
in  the  car. 

"It  spoils  a  body,"  she  said,  with  a  happy  sigh. 

"What  does?" 

"  Oh,  staying  at  Mr.  Regan's  and  having  the  car 
and  everything.  I  wish  I  were  rich! " 

"You  are,"  I  replied.     Her  wholesome  face  was 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley  225 

good  to  see,  but  the  look  of  sadness  had  stayed  with 
her.  "Rich  in  all  but  ribbons."  I  touched  the 
smooth,  flaxen  braids  coiled  about  her  head.  She 
wore  no  ribbons. 

"  I'm  getting  too  old  for  hair  ribbons.  How's 
mother?" 

"  She  is  well,  but  has  an  increase  in  family."  I 
explained  the  twenty  school  children  and  my  errand. 
"  Come  along,"  I  said.  "  I  am  driving  all  over  the 
valley.  I'll  bring  you  back." 

She  gladly  consented,  and  after  a  word  with  her 
father,  who  hobbled  up  the  steps  of  the  dug-out  to 
greet  me,  we  drove  off. 

"He's  a  wonderful  old  man."  I  could  not  help 
saying  it,  though  I  had  said  it  so  often. 

She  lifted  her  chin  a  little  proudly,  but  made  no 
reply.  I  imagined  he  wasn't  so  well  —  he  looked 
thin.  .Was  she  keeping  it  from  me  to  keep  it 
from  her  mother?  She  was  a  great  little  Susie,  so 
reticent  and  yet  so  frank.  She  became  gay  at 
once  and  wanted  news  of  Lizbeth.  I  told  her 
of  the  new  school  teacher  and  her  pretty  blue 
eyes. 

"  Did  you  say  '  pretty '  blue  eyes  ?  "  she  wanted  to 
know  with  unexpected  archness. 

"  Just  pretty,  that's  all ;  not  star  eyes." 

She  laughed  and  blushed  and  began  telling  me 


226  Happy  Valley 

most  excitedly  about  the  new  homesteaders.  "  One 
man,"  she  said,  "  a  Mr.  Whitten,  was  awfully  good 
looking  and  young.  I  had  quite  a  case,  really.  He 
had  a  dimple  in  his  chin,  and  the  nicest  ways. 
Mother  Lattig  was  dippy  about  him  too ;  and  what 
do  you  think?  He  brought  his  wife  —  a  bride,  I'm 
sure.  My  luck." 

I  suggested  that  we  call  on  them  and  see  how  they 
fared.  Susie  swept  her  arm  in  a  gesture  to  the  east. 
"They're  off  that  way  somewhere.  I  would  have 
gone  to  see  them  long  ago,  but  I  could  not  leave 
father.  He  went  by  yesterday,  early,  with  a  load  of 
lumber.  They  are  going  to  build.  Oh,  but  we're 
getting  classy  in  Tenttown!  When  will  you  build 
your  wonderful  stone  house?  I  bet  you  never 
do!" 

I  had  broken  through  the  sagebrush,  following  a 
rough  road  on  the  way  to  the  new  homesteader's. 
We  would  see  Mother  Lattig  later.  The  car  twisted 
and  bumped  about,  but  Susie  was  happy  and  chat 
tered  ceaselessly.  Suddenly  she  caught  my  arm. 
"  There's  his  wagon !  —  and  his  team !  —  what  could 
have  happened  ?  " 

She  stood  up  in  the  car,  resting  her  hand  on  my 
shoulder  as  she  craned  her  neck  to  see.  One  gets 
desert  eyes  living  in  the  desert,  and  recognizes  ob 
jects  at  a  long  distance.  "It  is  his  wagon,"  she 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley  227 

repeated  excitedly,  clutching  at  my  shoulder. 
"What  could  have  happened?  It's  a  good  ten 
miles  to  his  ranch.  What  could  have  happened?" 

"  Susie,  sit  down,"  I  urged.  "  He  is  probably 
resting.  Sit  down."  A  shiver  of  dread  went  over 
me.  I  speeded  up  the  car  and  we  bumped  and 
pitched  along  over  the  rough  new  road  till  we  were 
up  with  the  wagon.  I  sprang  out  and  Susie  quickly 
followed  me.  We  found  him  lying  in  the  road,  face 
downward.  I  put  my  hand  over  his  heart.  It  was 
beating.  I  turned  him  over.  He  groaned  and 
opened  his  eyes,  then  quickly  closed  them. 

"Oh,  boys,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  know  minutes 
could  be  so  long."  Susie  in  her  close  wrapped  braids 
and  tight  little  khaki  cap  looked  like  a  boy.  I  tried 
to  lift  him,  but  he  cried  out  in  an  agony  of  pain. 
The  injury  seemed  internal. 

"  I  was  cramped  and  tired,"  he  gasped  out.  "  I 
got  down  to  walk;  I  whipped  up  the  leaders  and 
the  brake  block  struck  me  and  knocked  me  down; 
the  wagon  went  over  me;  the  team  stopped  —  they 
haven't  moved  since  —  but  the  wagon  went  over 
me." 

It  had  happened  the  evening  before  and  he  had 
lain  there  all  night.  There  was  nothing  to  take 
travelers  along  that  road.  We  got  a  plank  from 
his  load  of  lumber  and  together  Susie  and  I  edged 


228  Happy  Valley 


it  inch  by  inch  under  him.  Then  we  bound  him 
firmly  to  it  with  my  coat  and  Susie's  sweater.  We 
lifted  the  plank  across  the  back  seat  of  the  car  and 
Susie  held  him  while  I  drove.  We  reached  the  little 
homesteading  tent  an  hour  later.  The  young  wife 
ran  out  to  meet  us,  her  eyes  big  with  fright  and  the 
terror  of  the  long  wait  alone.  As  she  came  nearer 
horror  swept  her  face.  She  was  a  slight  young 
thing  in  a  wilted  calico  wrapper,  a  timid,  startled- 
eyed  woman. 

"He's  a  little  hurt,"  Susie  called,  bravely,  "but 
we  will  soon  have  a  doctor.  Isn't  it  lucky  we  have 
the  car  ?  "  She  tried  to  speak  easily,  but  Susie  had 
been  through  too  much  for  her  years.  Her  voice 
broke. 

The  poor  young  wife  with  her  hands  clamped  to 
her  mouth  as  though  she  would  shut  off  her  outcry, 
and  her  wide,  fawn  eyes  looking  more  startled  than 
ever,  waited  as  we  lifted  down  the  plank  and  carried 
him  into  the  tent.  She  followed,  her  thin  shoulders 
bowed,  stepping  like  a  blind  person,  all  unseeing. 

We  placed  the  plank  on  the  bed;  we  began  to 
untie  the  coat  and  sweater. 

"  It's  no  use,  boys,"  he  said,  his  eyes  again  closed. 
"  I'm  done  for.  The  hurt's  inside.  Gracie,  Gracie, 
darling,  stay  by  the  ranch;  don't  go  back  to  town; 
stay  by  the  ranch  —  for  —  for  his  sake;  stay  by  the 


t 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley  229 

ranch."  His  hand  fumbled  for  hers  blindly.  She 
knelt  by  the  bed  and  threw  her  arms  about  him. 

"Grade,  darling  —  stay  —  stay  by  the  ranch  — 
for — for — :  His  eyes  closed.  My  hand  was  on 
his  heart.  It  had  stopped.  Still  she  did  not  know. 
She  said,  "  He's  asleep."  Susie  turned  away,  her 
eyes  too  full  of  tears  for  control.  "Oh,  Billy, 
Billy!  "she  sobbed. 

"He's  asleep,"  repeated  the  stunned  little  wife. 
I  drew  her  away  from  the  lifeless  body  still  on  its 
board;  it  was  to  know  no  other  bed  now  —  only  a 
board;  something  in  her  drawn  face  suggested 
the  meaning  in  the  poor  young  husband's  words. 
I  pushed  her  into  a  home-made  camp  chair.  The 
young  husband  had  made  it,  an  inefficient  chair  con 
structed  of  boards  and  a  swinging  breadth  of  blue 
denim.  She  was  still  dazed.  Susie  knelt  beside  her 
and  took  both  her  hands ;  they  were  thin  little  hands 
like  bird  claws. 

I  turned  back  to  the  bed  to  do  what  I  could;  I 
wished  for  Lizbeth. 

"Don't  —  don't  wake  him,"  said  the  dazed  little 
wife,  starting  up. 

Susie's  tears  came  in  spite  of  her  superb  effort  at 
control.  And  the  tears  some  way  told  the  little 
woman  what  nothing  else  had  told  her.  She  sat  sud 
denly  erect  in  the  clumsy  denim  chair.  One  corner 


230  Happy  Valley 


had  come  untacked  —  it  had  not  been  a  very  good 
job.  She  sat  up,  startled.  "Tell  me,"  she  cried, 
"  tell  me  the  truth ! "  Then  she  sprang  up  and  ran 
to  him;  one  long,  searching  look  and  she  crumpled 
to  the  ground.  We  did  what  we  could. 

I  left  Susie  holding  her  in  her  arms  and  drove 
rapidly  for  Mother  Lattig.  Mother  Lattig  was 
volubly  glad  to  see  me  before  I  could  explain.  Her 
son  had  gone  away  again  for  supplies  and  she  was 
alone.  She  seemed  to  be  breaking,  poor  Mother 
Lattig.  She  cried  and  laughed  over  me.  As  soon 
as  I  could  I  got  her  to  understand  what  had 
happened. 

"  Ah,  God,"  she  cried,  throwing  her  apron  to  her 
eyes.  "  Now  I  tink  it  be  me ;  now  it  had  to  be  dat 
fine  young  man.  It  better  be  me;  Ah,  God!" 

Her  big  arms  became  mother  arms  to  the  little 
widow. 

I  sent  one  of  the  Valley  men  to  look  after  the 
team  and  its  load,  then  drove  back  to  the  Q  Ranch ; 
but  I  returned  to  Happy  Valley  as  rapidly  as  the  car 
could  travel  with  Mr.  Regan.  His  face  had  gone 
ashen  at  the  news.  "A  fearful  price ! "  he  had  said 
under  his  breath.  "  A  fearful  price ! " 

We  buried  Whitten  on  his  ranch  the  next  day. 
Everyone  in  the  valley  was  there.  Our  old  man 
read  the  funeral  service  and  led  in  singing  "  Lead, 


Sorrow  in  the  Valley 


231 


Kindly  Light."  His  daughters  were  able  to  sing 
with  him ;  the  others  tried ;  the  Dutchman  sat  morose 
and  sullen  all  through  the  simple  service.  When 
we  had  shoveled  in  the  earth  Ed  brought  a  board 
which  he  had  sawed  from  the  lumber  that  was  to 
have  built  the  new  little  cabin,  and  I  cut  in  his  name 
and  age:  "James  Whitten,  aged  22."  We  drove 
the  board  into  the  earth. 

Mr.  Regan  was  talking  with  the  weak  little 
widow.  He  had  been  talking  with  her  at  intervals 
all  day.  She  had  been  unable  to  respond  to  any 
thing  he  had  to  say.  Now  as  the  ranchers  stood 
about,  silent  or  in  desultory  conversation,  I  saw 
Mr.  Regan  go  to  the  tent,  holding  her  by  the  arm. 
He  pushed  back  the  flap  and  followed  her  in.  A! 
few  minutes  later  he  came  out  and  called  me. 

"  Bring  the  car,  Billy,"  he  said.  "  We're  taking 
Mrs.  Whitten  home  with  us." 

I  knew  that  we  had  our  new  assistant.  My  search 
was  ended. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
"WORRYING  WRONG" 

'TTpHERE'S  something  wrong  with  the  Dutch- 
JL  man,"  Mr.  Regan  said  to  me  a  few  days 
after  the  funeral.  "Did  you  notice  that  he  is 
worrying  wrong?" 

I  suggested  that  I  hadn't  known  there  was  a 
right  way  to  worry;  and  the  fact  that  his  wheat 
crop  did  not  bring  him  the  price  of  hauling  it  out  — 
he  was  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  miles  from  a 
railroad  and  the  haul  had  cost  him  a  cent  a  bushel 
for  each  mile  —  was  enough  to  make  any  man  worry 
in  all  the  ways  there  were. 

"A  right  way,  maybe,  isn't  really  worry,"  he 
said.  "  It's  just  being  intent  on  getting  out.  A 
wrong  way  is  to  sit  down  in  your  trouble  and  let  it 
close  in  on  you.  The  Dutchman  has  sat  down." 

"He's  had  it  hard  — the  fire  and  all." 

"  I  remember  once  I'd  got  in  so  deep  there  didn't 
seem  any  way  out.  I  was  riding  along  thinking 
about  it  —  worrying  wrong  like  the  Dutchman  — 
and  it  just  sort  of  came  to  me  that  I  had  to  go  on 
out  as  I'd  come  in.  I  couldn't  back  track.  I'd  make 

232 


"Worrying  Wrong" 


233 


more  debts  and  go  on  out  as  I'd  come  in.  A  man's 
got  to.  I  loaded  down  heavier  and  plowed  on 
through.  Debts  are  ballast  sometimes.  Even  a  car 
has  to  be  loaded  to  ride  easy.  An  empty  car  just 
bobbles  along.  For  steady,  strong  going  it's  got  to 
be  loaded." 

"  Poor  old  Dutchie  had  a  hard  whack,"  I  per 
sisted  ;  "then  there's  all  those  children.  He'd  prom 
ised  Leeda  she  could  go  away  to  school." 

His  face  lighted  up.  "Yes,  all  those  children. 
He's  raised  a  fine  family;  he's  got  a  fine  wife." 
And  after  a  few  minutes,  "  He's  looked  at  the  same 
thing  too  long;  he's  got  to  get  his  eyes  riveted  on 
something  else." 

I  was  not  surprised  when  he  told  me  later  of 
his  intention  to  begin  the  new  road  over  Wind 
Mountain  into  Happy  Valley.  The  present  road 
was  not  only  steep  but  narrow  and  rutty. 
Neither  was  I  surprised  when  he  added,  "I  think 
Dutchie '11  take  that  contract.  You  can  drive 
down  there  today  and  see  Dutchie  about  taking  the 
contract." 

It  was  on  this  trip  that  our  old  man  opened  his 
heart  to  me.  Susie  was  over  at  her  sister's  help 
ing  with  one  of  the  children  who  had  burned  his 
hand. 

"They've  got  to  have  their  mail,"  he  said,  bob- 


234  Happy  Valley 

bing  his  head  energetically.  His  face  was  thin,  the 
bones  sharply  evident  under  the  red  parchment 
skin.  The  old  man  was  failing.  I  wondered  if  I 
ought  not  suggest  this  to  Mrs.  Clark.  She  would 
want  to  be  with  him  if  she  knew.  Her  sacrifice  in 
staying  on  at  the  cookhouse  was  a  real  one.  Her 
whole  life  was  bound  up  in  her  husband  and  chil 
dren.  She  had  never  thought  of  wanting  anything 
beyond  the  daily  comradeship  of  those  she  loved.  I 
could  see  that  while  she  stayed  by  the  job  like  a 
stoic  it  was  wearing  on  her;  and  here  was  the  old 
man,  failing.  I  hardly  heard  his  suggestion,  so  busy 
was  I  with  my  thoughts. 

"It  ain't  right;  they  gotta  have  their  mail,"  he 
reiterated. 

"Who?  "I  asked  absently. 

"The  settlers  —  specially  the  women  folks.  It's 
hard  just  gettin'  mail  once  a  month  or  so  as  it  hap 
pens.  Now  if  we  had  mail  once  a  week  those  women 
whose  husbands  are  away  workin'  wouldn't  feel  so 
down  in  the  mouth.  They'd  hear ;  and  that'd  help ; 
that  and  the  papers'd  break  the  monotony  somethin' 
great." 

"  Well,  what  is  the  idea  ?  How  do  you  go  about 
it?"  I  asked. 

"A  petition's  the  first  thing;  circulate  a 
petition." 


"Worrying  Wrong"  235 

"  Then  start  your  petition,"  I  said,  "  and  I'll  pick 
up  names  as  I  go  back." 

He  caught  at  the  idea  and  hobbled  over  to  the 
table,  pushed  back  bread  and  dishes,  and  went  to 
work  on  his  petition.  I  carried  it  away  with  me. 
Mr.  Regan  seconded  our  old  man's  plan  and  the 
petition  with  one  hundred  signatures  went  to  Wash 
ington.  In  due  time  our  old  man  was  appointed 
postmaster,  then  bids  were  called  for  to  carry  the 
mail.  It  would  have  to  be  carried  from  Two  Forks. 
Clark  put  in  his  bid  and  I  think  Sol  Sneed  and  the 
Book- farmer,  whose  funds  were  getting  low,  also 
put  in  a  bid  each.  All  were  rejected.  They  were 
too  high. 

We  found  our  old  man  pretty  low  over  it.  I  had 
driven  Mr.  Regan  down  to  see  how  the  Wind  Moun 
tain  road  was  coming  on  and  then  we  had  continued 
on  a  round-up  of  the  valley.  "Uncle  Sam  don't 
somehow  realize  what  one  hundred  miles  and  a 
mountain  mean,"  he  said,  apologetic  for  Uncle 
Sam.  "I  figured  just  exactly  what  I  could  do  it 
for  and  come  out  even.  Didn't  figure  to  make  none ; 
the  folks  has  gotta  have  their  mail ;  I  didn't  figure 
to  make — Uncle  Sam  don't  understand." 

"Bid  again,  Clark,  and  cut  off  something,"  ad 
vised  Regan. 

He  laughed  a  weak  imitation)  of  his  old-time 


236  Happy  Valley 

hearty  chuckle,  and  slapped  his  leg.  "I  would  —  if 
I  had  'tother  one,"  he  said  wryly.  "  I'd  risk  losin' 
if  I  had  t'other  one.  The  folks  has  gotta  have 
their  mail;  leastwise,  the  women  folks;  they  have 
to  have  things  like  that." 

"They  have;  bid  again,  Clark,  bid  again.  I'll 
piece  it  out;  bid  again." 

Our  old  man  looked  up  at  Regan,  then  he  put  out 
his  hand.  "You  sure  air  a  public-spirited  man, 
Regan,  you  sure  air."  A  slow,  happy  smile  over 
spread  his  thin,  wasted  face.  "  The  women'll  have 
their  letters,"  he  said,  almost  like  a  prayer.  "  The 
women  have  to  have  things  like  that  —  letters  and 
things." 

Susie  pulled  back  the  tent  flap  and  came  running 
down  the  steps.  She  nodded  to  Mr.  Regan,  then 
turned  brightly  to  me.  "  How  is  the  teacher  with 
the  pretty  blue  eyes?"  she  demanded. 

"Just  as  pretty  as  ever,"  I  answered. 

"Not  any  prettier?" 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  Oh,  then  that  is  all  right.  Who  is  Raz's  now  ? 
Lizbeth?" 

"No,  Lizbeth  is  decidedly  not  Raz's."  We  went 
outside,  leaving  the  two  men  to  talk  over  post-office 
plans. 

"Oh,  who's  then?" 


"Worrying  Wrong"  237 

"Who  are  you  most  interested  in,  Lizbeth  or 
Raz?" 

"Can't  I  be  interested  in  both?" 

"  No,  just  one." 

"  Is  the  pretty  teacher  Raz's  now  ?  " 

"Are  you  so  interested  in  who  is  Raz's?" 

"  I  am  interested  in  who  is  Lizbeth's  —  specially." 
She  shot  me  a  suspicious  look. 

"Sure  it's  not  Raz  you're  interested  in  —  spe 
cially?" 

"Well,  Raz  is  awfully  good  looking  and  he  has 
the  loveliest  hair ! " 

"  And  mine  —  "  I  tried  to  turn  it  off  lightly,  but 
it  did  cut. 

"  Oh,  Billy,  dear,  you  know  I  love  your  hair,"  she 
exclaimed  impulsively,  changing  from  her  bantering 
mood.  "  Now  tell  me ! "  she  coaxed. 

"Well,  Lizbeth  is  not  Raz's,  and  the  pink  and 
white  teacher  is  not  Raz's." 

"  You  —  you  mean  thing !  Then  you've  got  them 
both!" 

"You  forget  Bullpit." 

"  Does  he  still  stick  around  ?  " 

"He  took  the  pink-and-white  teacher  to  a  dance 
at  Two  Forks." 

"And  not  Lizbeth?" 

"And  not  Lizbeth." 


238  Happy  Valley 

"And  you  didn't  take  Lizbeth?" 

"No." 

"And  Raz  didn't  take  —  Billy,  there's  someone 
else!  Who  is  it?  Tell  me!" 

"  I  think  it's  her  uncle,"  I  answered. 

"And  he  won't  let  Lizbeth  go  with  you  —  be 
cause —  because — you're  his  —  chauffeur —  ?  Oh, 
Billy,  I  don't  believe  that !  Besides,  you're  not  just 
a  chauffeur;  you  know  you're  not!" 

"  I  didn't  say  that  was  the  reason,  Susie." 

"Besides,  you  are  just  as  good  as  her  any  day; 
she's  a  trained  nurse,  and  you're  a  —  a  trained 
chauffeur ;  and  that's  as  big  as  to  be  a  trained  nurse 
any  day ! "  Her  eyes  were  snapping.  My  poor  little 
hired  girl  —  she  had  many  inequalities  to  figure  out 
all  alone  in  her  desert  of  sage.  Some  way  she 
always  had  me  on  a  pedestal  above  everyone  else ;  I 
don't  know  why. 

"Who  did  Raz  take?"    She  was  back  at  it. 

"Raz  didn't  go." 

She  was  mystified.    "Who  did  he  stay  with?" 

"Susie,  Susie,  what  a  cross-questioner!  You 
should  be  a  lawyer." 

"Did  he  stay  with  Lizbeth?" 

"He  did  not." 

"  Then  you  must  have." 

"Lizbeth  and  I  played  cribbage  till  all  of  nine 


"Worrying  Wrong"  239 

o'clock,  when  Uncle  John  suggested  that  it  was 
bedtime." 

"What  did  Raz  do?" 

"Well,  I  guess  he  played  cribbage,  too,"  I 
admitted. 

"Who  with?" 

"It  might  have  been  your  mother.  Raz  must 
think  a  lot  of  your  mother,  the  way  he  hangs  about 
the  cookhouse." 

"Of  course  he  loves  mother;  who  don't?  But  — 
oh,  oh,  oh,  I  know,  I  know,  I  know.  And  is  it  really 
so?" 

"  It  begins  to  look  so." 

"But  —  with  the  pretty  pink-and- white  teacher 
there,  and  Lizbeth,  and  —  and  — 

"And  all  the  other  girls  in  the  whole  country 
crazy  about  the  big  buckaroo  boss,  and  the  little 
widow  pulls  him  down.  Well,  what  inference?  " 

Susie  sat  down  on  a  nail  keg  better  to  take  it  in. 

"  She's  not  —  even  —  pretty." 

"  But  she's  got  a  sad,  wistful  way." 

"  She's  no  worker,  mother  says ;  can't  do  anything 
right;  they  just  carry  her  along  because  they  are 
sorry  for  her." 

"Her  hands  are  so  helpless;  they  cling." 

"And  she  is  sickly  —  and  pale  —  and  hollow- 
eyed." 


240 


Happy  Valley 


"  And  little ;  she  would  haunt  a  man,  a  big,  strong 
man  like  Raz  Poole.  He'd  wonder  nights,  when 
the  wind  blew,  if  she  were  afraid." 

Susie  heaved  a  prodigious  sigh  and  looked  down 
at  her  own  round,  muscular  arms,  her  well-devel 
oped  calves  outlined 
beneath  her  short  khaki 
skirt.  "  I  guess  I'll  re 
duce,"  she  said. 

"CXh,  so  you  did 
have  your  cap  set  for 
Raz,  after  all!" 

"Well,  if  that  is  the 
only  way  to  win  a 
man ! "  she  flung  back. 

"  We  were  talking 
about  Raz." 

Her    face    relaxed 
into  a  speculative  smile, 
she  is  attractive,  then?" 

"Health  is  the  most  attractive  thing  to  me,"  I 
said,  "health  and  wholesomeness  and  capability.  I 
wouldn't  exchange  one  hair  of  your  head  —  " 

A  baby  cried  in  the  tent  across  the  way  and 
Jim's  wife  called  sharply  to  Susie.  The  baby  was 
fretting  and  she  was  worn  out  with  him.  Susie 
sprang  up  and  ran  away,  but  she  looked  back  and  I 


Raz  Poole 


"You  don't  really  think 


"Worrying  Wrong' 


241 


caught  a  twinkle  in  the  star  eyes  of  my  little  hired 
girl.  I  pulled  myself  up  sharply.  What  was  I 
thinking  about? 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WHAT  RED  TAPE  DOES 

I  HAD  spoken  of  Bullpit's  activity  in  the  locating 
business. 

"Whenever  you  see  one  of  those  little  fellows 
that  a  rule  put  across  his  head  catches  both  shoul 
ders,  he'll  make  money.  Yes,  that  man  will  make 
money." 

Regan  spoke  with  his  usual  gentleness,  but  with 
a  certain  tone  of  finality  so  far  as  Bullpit  was  con 
cerned.  He  was  not  a  subject  to  be  discussed  seri 
ously  or  intimately.  I  dropped  him.  We  were  driv 
ing  along  the  route  of  the  irrigation  canal  and  had 
just  passed  a  huge  pile  of  juniper  wood  which  we 
Happy  Valley  homesteaders  had  chopped  the  winter 
before  and  for  using  which  Mr.  Regan  had  been 
indicted.  A  lone  man,  small,  and  tight-clothed  in 
khaki,  was  monotonously  patrolling  it.  It  was 
laughable.  Here  were  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand  acres  of  land  in  one  piece  without  a  soul  on  it 
save  the  Regan  outfit,  and  beyond  that  other  millions 
of  acres  with  only  an  occasional  homesteader,  and 

242 


What  Red  Tape  Does  243 

yet  a  government  official  was  kept  there  to  patrol  the 
woodpile. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  Someone  might  steal  it,"  Regan  answered 
mildly,  with  his  throaty  chuckle. 

"  Who  ?  "  I  wanted  to  know. 

"  Well,  you  see  that  man  had  to  have  a  job.  He's 
a  relative  of  some  political  influence  or  other  who 
had  either  done  something  bad  or  had  a  weak  lung, 
so  they  sent  him  out  to  be  king  of  the  West.  The 
West's  all  bad  and  the  East's  got  to  govern  it." 
His  Irish  blue  eyes  twinkled.  It  nettled  me. 

"It's  a  pretty  serious  joke  for  the  homesteaders," 
I  said  —  "the  people  to  whom  the  government  has 
offered  free  land  to  get  it  settled." 

"The  government's  just  a  man,  Billy;  ever  think 
of  that  ?  And  when  it's  a  back-East  man  it's  bound  to 
be  pretty  serious.  You  maybe  never  could  have  pic 
tured  all  this  back  there,"  his  nod  indicated  the  vast 
reach  of  unbroken  country,  "  neither  can  they.  The 
whole  Northwest  was  saved  to  Uncle  Sam  through 
the  vision  and  determination  of  one  man.  Every 
thing  has  to  be  done  by  one  man,  Billy;  someone 
who  has  the  vision  must  make  those  who  have  the 
power  see  it.  The  vision  and  the  power  don't  often 
hitch  up  together  in  the  same  one." 

A  white-coated  prairie  schooner  pulled  into  view, 


244  Happy  Valley 


creeping  south.  Regan's  eyes  grew  serious.  "  Those 
are  the  real  martyrs,  Billy,  the  pioneers.  They've 
got  to  wear  out  their  first  energy  all  for  nothing." 

"You  think  they  won't  be  able  to  make  it?" 

"  Billy,  how  will  they  get  their  crops  out  without 
a  railroad  ?  Unless  they're  bringing  in  money  how 
will  they  live  till  we  do  get  a  railroad  ?  You've  seen 
abandoned  cabins  all  over  the  inland  empire  — 
every  one  a  monument  to  the  death  of  an  American 
citizen's  highest  hope,  his  hope  of  a  home  and  inde 
pendence.  You  must  know  a  man  has  the  appetite 
for  land  pretty  keen  when  he  will  haul  supplies  this 
way  from  a  railroad  to  satisfy  it;  but  the  country 
gets  him.  He  eats  up  his  savings  and  then  he  has 
to  go  away  and  find  work  and  the  work  just  keeps 
his  family  on  the  ranch  and  there  he  is  on  a  tread 
mill.  The  ranch  can't  produce  without  his  labor  is 
put  on  it,  and  when  he  puts  his  labor  on  it  he  can't 
market  his  crop  —  and  there  you  are." 

"But,"  I  protested,  "the  first  pioneers  who 
crossed  the  Rockies  made  it  all  right." 

"  There  were  no  restrictions  in  those  days,  Billy. 
A'  man  took  down  his  shotgun  and  brought  in  a 
deer  or  a  brace  of  ducks.  He  hitched  up  his  team 
and  hauled  in  wood  from  the  hills.  He  built  a  mill 
and  used  the  water  power.  There  was  no  question 
as  to  the  right  of  the  early  pioneer  to  use  everything 


What  Red  Tape  Does 245 

in  the  country,  all  its  resources,  to  get  his  start. 
Now  government  says  take  the  land,  but  touch  the 
blood  of  the  land  —  its  game  and  wood  and  water « — » 
under  penalty. 

"Mother  Nature  fixed  up  the  country  all  right, 
but  the  government  makes  a  livelihood  impossible. 
It  sends  its  little  snipper-snapper  agents  over  the 
West  to  peek  into  the  homesteader's  cabin  and  see 
if  the  poor  little  wife  is  being  punished  enough  for 
her  husband's  notion  of  making  her  a  home;  to  see 
that  she's  staying  there  in  the  desolation  while  he's 
away  somewhere  earning  her  food;  just  little  po 
licemen  punishing  women  and  children.  Why, 
Billy,  they  ought  by  rights  to  be  guardians  for 
Uncle  Sam's  pioneers,  calling  to  see  that  they  are 
not  suffering,  to  see  if  Uncle  Sam  can  do  anything 
in  reason  to  make  their  lot  easier." 

I  began  to  feel  downhearted.  Were  we  all  in  a 
fool's  paradise  ?  Was  our  effort  a  wild  goose  chase  ? 
Was  our  old  man  a  mere  visionary?  I  thought  of 
my  butte,  my  spring,  my  vision  of  wheat  fields  and 
cattle  and  a  home  in  that  forever  land  where  one 
breathed  in  new  life  continually.  Had  I  been  a 
fool  to  imagine  I  could  make  the  thing  stick  ?  Was 
this  the  end  of  my  long  day  of  hooky  from  the 
depression  of  artificial  life? 

He  read  my  mood.     "We're  all  in  belly  deep, 


246  Happy  Valley 

Billy.  You  know  when  one  of  Dave's  horses  gets 
in  the  tule  marsh  belly  deep  he's  got  to  swim  to  get 
out.  If  he  stops  a  minute  down  he'll  go.  But  a 
good  horse  —  one  worth  caring  about  —  he'll  swim 
out." 

"If  one  only  knew  what  to  do/'  I  said.  "And 
they  stopped  your  canal,  Uncle  Sam  stopped  your 
canal  —  a  thing  that  gave  work  to  his  homesteaders, 
that  would  have  invited  colonies  and  a  railroad. 
The  government  stopped  it!"  The  full  import  of 
the  thing  flooded  me  afresh. 

"Just  a  man,  Billy,"  he  said,  mildly,  "a  little 
special  agent  that  had  to  make  a  report  —  he  did  it. 
I  was  climbing  down  off  the  dredger  into  the  mud 
when  the  United  States  marshal  served  the  papers 
on  me.  He  didn't  like  the  mud,  I  remember.  When 
inferiors  govern  superiors  power  must  always  be 
used,  Billy.  He  had  the  whole  machinery  of  gov 
ernment  with  him,  the  marshal,  the  district  attorney, 
the  courts.  It  was  some  feather  in  his  cap. 

"  Makes  me  think  of  a  cub  reporter  I  met  in  New 
York  once  just  after  one  of  those  big  liners  had 
gone  down,  carrying  a  thousand  people.  The  cub 
reporter  got  the  first  news  to  his  paper  and  the 
scoop  gave  him  a  promotion  and  two  weeks'  vaca 
tion.  Some  one  spoke  of  the  awfulness  of  the  dis 
aster.  '  But  look  what  it  did  for  me ! '  he  said,  beat- 


What  Red  Tape  Does  247 

ing  his  little  breast.  Well,  see  what  a  big  thing  it 
was  for  a  little  special  agent.  Found  a  man  digging 
a  canal  through  a  tule  swamp  and  using  the  govern 
ment's  juniper  wood  to  run  the  dredger.  Stopped 
the  canal,  stopped  the  coming  of  a  thousand  settlers, 
stopped  the  bread  and  butter  from  the  homestead 
ers'  mouths  —  but  look  what  it  did  for  him!  He 
caught  a  big  fish,  made  a  sensational  report."  He 
chuckled. 

"When  the  little  policeman  came  to  patrol  the 
woodpile,"  he  went  on  in  an  amused  tone,  "he  had 
been  riding  all  day  without  a  mouthful  to  eat.  He 
didn't  know  what  he  was  getting  into  when  he  left 
the  railroad  at  Ossing.  He  stopped,  all  caved  in,  at 
a  homesteader's  cabin  and  asked  for  dinner.  The 
homesteader's  wife  had  been  pretty  hard  hit  and 
that  little  khaki  suit  didn't  look  good  to  her.  He 
straightened  up  his  padded  shoulders  and  said  right 
spirited  for  one  so  all  caved  in,  '  I'm  in  the  employ 
of  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior  and  I  want  some 
dinner.'  '  Well,'  she  says,  '  if  you  were  the  Secre 
tary  of  the  Interior  himself  I  couldn't  cook  you  no 
dinner.  I  haven't  got  any  wood  to  cook  you  a  din 
ner.'  It  was  a  right  handy  answer,  wasn't  it?" 

We  had  reached  the  dredger.  It  lay  there  in  the 
soft  mud,  sinking  steadily  into  the  swamp,  the 
water  pouring  in  over  it,  its  machinery  rusting,  its 


248 Happy  Valley 

cogs  glued  together  with  mire.  To  organize  a  camp 
and  solve  the  problem  of  putting  a  ditch  through  a 
tule  swamp  had  meant  months  of  hard  work.  As 
with  everything  in  this  virgin  country,  there  was  no 
precedent.  Every  trick  of  the  soil  and  the  stream 
had  to  be  learned  at  first  hand.  It  had  been  a  terrific 
undertaking  and  the  initial  expense  had  been  enor 
mous;  and  there  lay  the  dredger  sinking  down  in 
the  mud  and  water;  and  there  lay  the  juniper  wood 
idle  and  unused;  and  there  were  the  homesteaders, 
frantic  for  work  that  would  make  it  possible  for 
them  to  fulfil  Uncle  Sam's  requirements  —  while 
Uncle  Sam's  money  —  the  money  of  all  the  people 
—  paid  a  policeman  to  patrol  a  woodpile !  There  was 
no  one  to  steal  it,  no  one  to  buy  it,  no  one  to  use  it. 
It  was  as  safe  from  interference  as  though  every 
stick  stood  on  its  stump  back  in  the  hills.  And  back 
in  the  interminable  Oregon  forests  was  being  con 
served  more  juniper  that  was  dying  and  falling  and 
rotting  from  old  age;  falling  and  making  under 
brush  that  had  to  be  guarded  from  fire  by  other 
government  employed  men  —  other  people  paid  by 
all  the  people's  money. 

"  The  Indians  had  a  better  way,"  Mr.  Regan  said, 
dropping  into  my  thoughts.  "  The  Indians  kept  the 
underbrush  and  dead  timber  cleaned  out  for  the 
sake  of  the  game.  It  prevented  fires  as  well.  Our 


What  Red  Tape  Does 249 

timber  today  is  in  constant  danger  from  the  rank 
undergrowth  and  dead,  fallen  trees.  It  needs  to  be 
cleaned  out  to  protect  the  woods.  We  owe  our  big 
timber  to  the  Indians." 

"How  could  they  get  the  law  on  you,  Mr. 
Regan?"  I  demanded.  "It  seems  to  me  prepos 
terous —  I  started  to  be  a  lawyer  —  I  read  for  a 
while  —  how  did  they  do  it?" 

"It's  an  old  law,  Billy,"  he  said,  "enacted  back 
in  eighteen  thirty-two  when  the  Government  didn't 
see  any  farther  than  that  they  would  always  need 
red  cedar  and  oak  for  building  battleships.  The  law 
says  it's  a  criminal  offense  to  use  oak  or  red  cedar 
off  the  government  reserve  except  for  the  United 
States  navy." 

"But  juniper  —  " 

"  Juniper  never  had  any  classification.  It  had  no 
value.  It  just  went  along  with  the  cedar." 

"Then  what  in  the  name  —  " 

"Billy,  you're  on  the  spot.  You're  seeing  the 
thing  as  it  is.  The  men  who  are  dealing  with  this 
case  are  not  seeing  it  at  all  —  just  reading  a  report." 

"Then  what  is  the  plan?"  I  demanded,  feeling 
suddenly  a  fighter.  "  What  is  the  thing  to  do  ?  " 

"  We've  got  to  have  a  railroad,"  he  began  in  his 
mildly  persuasive  tone,  "but  a  railroad  won't  come 
without  settlers;  the  settlers  can't  come  without  a 


250  Happy  Valley 

railroad;  there  you  have  the  deadlock.  Of  course 
if  that  timber  belt  to  the  east  was  open,  a  railroad 
would  build  to  timber ;  but  that  is  shut  off  from  use 
by  the  government;  if  the  waterways  were  open  we 
could  have  mills,  but  the  water  power  is  tied  up  by 
the  government;  if  a  canal  was  dug  here,  inviting 
a  thousand  settlers  to  irrigated  ranches,  a  railroad 
might  build  to  that;  it  would  be  a  feeder;  but  you 
can't  dig  a  canal  without  wood  and  the  wood  belongs 
to  the  government." 

'  Then  what  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

"  Find  a  way,  Billy,  find  a  way." 

"And  in  the  meantime  all  those  homesteaders 
down  in  Happy  Valley  and  the  new  ones  coming 
in  this  spring,  what  are  they  facing  but  —  starva 
tion?" 

"If  they  will  hold  on,  Billy,  they'll  have  a  good 
thing  of  it  some  day;  if  they'll  just  hold  on." 

I  burst  out,  "In  the  name  of  God,  hold  on  to 
what  ?  "  I  was  thinking  of  the  plucky  Clark  women, 
and  poor  little  Susie's  eyes  that  seemed  never  to  be 
able  to  twinkle  steadily  again,  and  her  father,  crip 
pled  for  life,  all  in  one  year;  they  had  held  on  to 
their  doom;  and  now  others  were  coming  in  and 
he  was  saying  they  must  hold  on ! 

"Of  course,  there  are  men  whose  nature  it  is  to 
give  up,"  he  said,  "  and  others  that  get  back  of  a 


What  Red  Tape  Does  251 

thing  like  a  mule.  Generally  we've  had  the  ones 
who  give  up.  All  the  little  empty  cabins  tell  us 
that.  I've  hoped  for  the  others.  I've  hoped  —  and 
Clark's  one." 

I  felt  ashamed.  "I'm  another,"  I  said,  putting 
out  my  hand.  He  grasped  it  firmly  and  some  way  in 
that  hand  grasp  the  country  got  onto  my  shoulders. 
The  sun  set  on  my  mere  day  of  hooky,  and  rose 
on  a  day  of  fight.  After  I  went  to  bed  that  night 
John  Regan  with  his  gentle  voice  and  his  outward 
mildness  came  before  me  as  a  man  of  iron. 


CHAPTER  XX 

LIZBETH  AND  CONFIDENCES 

WE  had  a  talk  about  marriage  one  day,  Mr. 
Regan  and  I.  It  followed  a  comment  of  his 
that  only  married  settlers,  as  a  rule,  stuck  it  out. 
"  No/'  I  said,  "  I  shall  never  marry." 

He  laughed;  and  then  he  laughed  again;  he  had 
a  most  disconcerting  way  of  laughing  at  times.  I 
didn't  laugh.  "  Young  folks,"  he  said  at  last,  "  are 
all  alike,  all  ready  to  say,  solemn,  what  they  won't 
do  with  the  big  stream  of  their  lives;  and  they  just 
at  the  starting  of  it." 

"  I  have  a  very  good  reason,"  I  maintained. 

"  I  remember  thinking  that  way,  too,  along  about 
twenty-five  years  ago;  had  an  awful  good  reason; 
but  just  the  same,  Billy,  there  ain't  a  thing  a  man 
can  do  as  nice  for  himself  or  as  good  for  his  country 
as  to  marry  a  fine  woman  and  raise  up  a  good  big 
family." 

"  I  can't  think  what  reason  you  could  have  had," 
I  replied.  With  his  many  interests  and  his  ceaseless 
activity,  he  still  seemed  to  me  a  lonely  man. 

"All   the   early   cattlemen  were  bachelors,"  he 

252 


Lizbeth  and  Confidences  253 

answered.  "All  had  left  a  girl  somewhere;  were 
making  a  stake  and  going  back  to  where  she  lived 
to  enjoy  it;  some  of  us  never  got  back,  Billy;  got 
too  tight  locked  into  the  country." 

Then  I  spoke  frankly  of  the  family  curse.  "  My 
sister  was  right,"  I  said.  "  A  man  who  knows  what 
he's  about  isn't  going  to  put  that  curse  on  anyone 
else;  not  a  man  who  has  suffered  as  I  have.  My 
grandfather  the  most  prominent  judge  in  his  state 
and  I  —  his  only  grandson  —  driving  your  car  and 
grateful  for  the  job ! "  I  didn't  often  think  of  these 
things,  but  today,  someway,  sitting  alongside  this 
man  of  force  who  had  made  himself  one  of  the 
greatest  powers  in  his  state  by  sheer  will,  it  struck 
home  bitterly. 

He  was  silent  some  moments.  "I  don't  know 
about  that,  Billy,"  he  said.  "  I'm  not  so  sure  about 
that.  It's  pretty  big  to  conquer  a  thing  like  that 
that's  as  you  say  been  put  on  you.  Making  money 
or  a  name  isn't  much  for  a  man  to  do  compared  with 
that.  It  looms  pretty  big,  Billy." 

"He  might  conquer  it  in  himself  and  still  the 
curse  might  pass  on  to  his  son." 

"It  might — of  course  it  might  —  this  thing  of 
inheritance  is  out  of  our  hands.  We  can't  do  much 
but  watch  it.  Seems  to  me,  though,  that  the  man 
who  conquers  that  thing  in  himself  —  why,  he's  got 


254  Happy  Valley 

the  makings  of  a  mighty  fine  will  that  will  be  some 
thing  to  pass  on,  too.  No  person  is  ever  going  to 
grow  and  handle  others  till  he's  handled  the  person 
closest  to  him,  and  that's  himself.  He  won't  be  a 
leader  till  he's  done  that.  A  man  who  comes  into 
life  with  nothing  special  to  conquer  —  no  one  thing 
to  fight  —  don't  have  much  chance  to  develop  fight 
ing  strength.  I  was  always  inefficient,  Billy,  unless 
I  had  a  definite  battle  on,  a  real  thing  to  pitch  into. 
You've  got  a  real  thing  there." 

This  was  a  new  slant.     I  sat  thinking. 

"It's  all  very  well  to  stay  down  in  the  country, 
Billy,  to  stay  away  from  temptation ;  that's  all  very 
well  and  right  while  a  man's  will  is  a  weak,  sick 
little  thing  that  has  to  be  nursed ;  but  it's  pretty  fine 
to  build  it  up  so  strong  you  don't  have  to  police 
yourself;  so  strong  you  don't  have  to  have  things 
kept  out  of  your  reach  like  crockery  from  babies. 
Just  a  great,  big,  strong  will,  Billy,  that  will  carry 
you  through.  That  will  be  doing  a  real  thing  with 
your  life." 

I  thought  about  this  for  days.  I  was  getting  a 
different  kind  of  hold  on  this  thing  of  living.  It 
didn't  seem  the  same  thing  that  it  had  in  the  old 
days  where  the  fear  of  open  disgrace  was  ever  the 
idea,  rather  than  what  a  man  really  might  do  with 
the  equipment  his  forbears  had  handed  him. 


Lizbeth  and  Confidences  255 

The  school,  meantime,  was  quite  a  success.  The 
pink-and-white  teacher  had  pretty,  dainty  ways  and 
the  children  all  liked  her.  Lizbeth  helped  with  the 
children  and  in  the  cookhouse,  too.  She  was  always 
slipping  in  to  broil  a  piece  of  steak  for  her  Uncle 
John  or  to  make  him  a  cup  of  coffee  or  do  some 
other  small  personal  service.  Lizbeth  was  an  or 
phan.  Her  uncle  had  kept  her  in  boarding  school 
and  from  there  she  had  taken  training  in  a  hospital. 
She  had  had  only  her  vacations  with  him  until  now. 
She  seemed  never  weary  of  doing  things  for  him, 
performing  all  those  devoted  personal  services  that 
so  many  men  miss  altogether.  He  had  much  in 
Lizbeth  —  but  still  his  life  seemed  lonesome,  par 
ticularly  in  the  evening,  when  an  open  fire  suggested 
homecomings  and  family  gatherings. 

I  sat  one  evening  thinking  about  it  as  the  fire 
crackled  cheerily  and  everything  was  quiet.  He  had 
just  come  in  from  a  long  trip,  and  Lizbeth  was  at 
his  feet  untying  his  shoes;  she  had  brought  his 
slippers.  She  loved  to  do  all  these  things  for  him. 
She  had  a  great  big  mother-heart,  and  it  was  ex 
pending  itself  on  this  father-hearted  man.  Would 
neither  ever  know  a  closer  tie?  Lizbeth  was  a 
pretty  girl,  especially  when  her  large,  gray  eyes 
lighted  up  as  they  invariably  did  on  her  uncle's 
appearance.  As  I  watched  her,  she  lifted  her  face 


256  Happy  Valley 


to  mine.     My  question  may  have  been  in  my  eyes. 

Her  uncle  pulled  his  chair  up  to  the  fire  where 
Dave  Todd  was  waiting  to  talk  over  ranch  matters. 
Dave  began  to  protest  against  the  wholesale  on 
slaught  made  by  homesteaders  on  the  haystacks. 
Mr.  Regan  had  insisted  on  letting  the  settlers  have 
hay  to  an  extent  that  looked  serious  for  the  Regan 
cattle.  Lizbeth  came  over  to  where  I  rested  on  the 
couch  in  the  shadows  among  the  coyote  skins. 

"^You're  sad  —  often,"  she  accused.  "I  wonder 
why — homesick  ?  " 

"So  are  you  —  often;  I  wonder  why?" 

"You  look  delicate.  I've  wondered  —  but  you 
never  cough.  Still  that  is  not  an  infallible  sign.  I 
never  cough  either." 

"Lizbeth,"  I  exclaimed  — "you!" 

"  Sh — not  so  loud.  It  would  worry  Uncle  John. 
I  haven't  a  bad  case,  but  I  inherited  it.  My  father 
was  tubercular  in  his  boyhood,  but  he  thought  he 
was  cured.  It  seems  to  have  come  out  in  me.  That 
is  why  I  have  given  up  nursing  and  insist  on  staying 
here.  Don't  tell  Uncle  John." 

"So  that  is  the  reason  — "  I  did  not  finish  it; 
but  this  explained  Lizbeth's  resigned  look.  Often  I 
thought  of  an  early  saint  when  I  saw  her  going 
about  doing  things  for  people  with  the  serenity  of 
a  nun.  And  yet  she  was  young  and  pretty  and  she 


Lizbeth  and  Confidences  257 

had  a  lot  of  spirit.  It  was  the  big,  tragic  resignation 
of  youth. 

I  returned  confidence  for  confidence  —  it  was  only 
fair,  though  I  far  preferred  not  to  talk  about  the 
thing.  I  knew  she  sensed  this;  that  she  felt  she 
had  almost  forced  my  confidence  and  that  the  sub 
ject  would  never  again  be  mentioned.  But  the  talk 
back  in  the  shadows  while  the  two  determined  cattle 
men  argued  by  the  blaze  cemented  a  friendship  that 
was  daily  becoming  more  intimate  and  precious.  I 
resolved  to  help  Lizbeth  win  her  fight.  She  did  not 
get  out  of  doors  enough.  I  would  suggest  her  going 
along  in  the  car  oftener.  Lizbeth  should  be  won 
out  of  her  inheritance. 

Long  afterward  I  learned  that  she  had  made  a 
similar  resolve  concerning  me. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  DANCE  AT  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE 

OUR  old  man  got  the  mail  contract  and  we  now 
saw  him  every  week.  Thursday  noon  he 
would  reach  the  cookhouse,  driving  his  rickety  buck- 
board,  and  call  blithely  to  Mother  Clark  as  he  hob 
bled  out.  Then  he  would  reach  us  again  Saturday 
on  his  way  back  from  Two  Forks.  He  carried  the 
letters  in  a  shoebox  and  the  papers  in  a  gunny  bag, 
both  resting  on  the  seat  beside  him.  Little  by  little 
the  buckboard  began  to  fill  up,  however,  with  the 
shopping  he  did  for  the  homesteaders  along  his 
route  and  for  which  he  refused  to  make  any  charge. 
I  protested  against  his  becoming  the  universal  shop 
per,  but  he  looked  at  me  in  mild  astonishment: 
"Why,  Billy,  the  folks  has  gotta  have  things." 

Dear  old  man,  there  was  a  queer  quirk  in  his  brain 
that  kept  him  forever  busy  with  the  problems  of 
those  about  him,  that  prevented  his  centering  on  his 
own  problems.  I  imagine  he  had  always  made 
money  for  everyone  but  himself.  In  time  the  home 
steaders  accepted  his  shopping  services  as  a  matter 
of  course,  grumbling  now  and  then  when  he  had  not 

258 


Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse          259 

pleased  them  or  when  he  was  late,  and  few  realized 
that  these  extra  duties  consumed  time  that  he  could 
hardly  spare  and  for  which  he  rarely  received 
thanks.  But  he  was  satisfied. 

December  made  considerable  history. 

Mr.  Regan's  case  was  postponed  until  April.  He 
was  under  twenty  thousand  dollars'  bonds  not  to 
leave  the  state,  this  man  whose  interests  were  so 
closely  interwoven  with  his  state  that  he  had  seldom 
left  it  during  his  fifty  years  save  that  he  might  push 
through  some,  measure  for  its  benefit.  He  had 
hoped  to  have  the  trial  off  his  hands,  for  he  wanted 
to  go  East  to  meet  David  Mill,  head  of  a  road  which 
operated  to  the  north  of  us,  but  which  had  no  hold 
ings  in  Oregon.  The  old  Oregon  road  had  disap 
pointed  Regan  too  many  times  for  further  faith. 
His  hope  was  to  interest  Mill.  The  postponement 
of  the  trial  added  another  five  months  to  the  wait 
and  uncertainty;  and  in  the  meantime  the  dredger 
sank  more  deeply  into  the  marsh  and  the  rust  ate  at 
its  vitals  and  the  mud  clogged  its  cogs  and  a  fifty 
thousand-dollar  investment  continued  in  its  process 
of  disintegration. 

December  saw  the  Dutchman  in  a  state  of  com 
plete  collapse;  worry  finally  got  him.  Again  John 
Regan  came  to  the  rescue,  sending  him  to  a  hospital 
in  Two  Forks.  The  Dutchman's  wife  asked  to  be 


260  Happy  Valley 


allowed  to  finish  the  road  contract.  She  had  been 
working  right  along  with  her  husband.  Mr.  Regan 
gave  her  the  contract. 

December  saw  the  Book-farmer  in  trouble.  His 
funds  were  gone  and  he  must  find  work.  Mr. 
Regan  turned  him  over  to  Raz  Poole.  Raz  swore  a 
round,  picturesque  oath  and  growled  out  something 
about  men  being  so  thick  in  the  bunkhouse  now  — 
half  of  them  ridin'  round  the  bunkhouse  stove 
waitin'  for  summer  —  but  Raz  could  have  saved  his 
oaths.  The  school  was  in  its  last  week,  the  pink- 
and- white  teacher  was  to  improve  her  ranch  —  and 
I  noticed  that  her  eyes  followed  the  slim,  neat  figure 
of  the  Book-farmer  as  he  followed  Raz  to  the  bunk- 
house.  I  surmised  that  he  would  get  a  job  more  to 
his  liking — and  he  did. 

December  saw  the  arrival  of  James  Whitten, 
Junior.  Mother  Clark,  her  face  wreathed  in  a 
wonderful  smile  of  mystery,  carried  him  to  the  cook 
house  for  the  buckaroos  to  peek  at,  poke  at,  or  gaze 
at,  as  most  of  them  did,  in  awe  and  wonderment; 
a  little  red,  wrinkled  squirm  of  humanity,  with  tight 
doubled  fists  over  which  the  skin  hung  loosely  and 
a  voice  that  suggested  disapproval  —  such  was 
James.  Old  Sody  in  his  perpetual  following  up  of 
leppies  extended  his  interest  to  little  leppy  James 
and  pronounced  on  him  as  a  fine  specimen  of  a  boy. 


Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse          261 

The  leppy  baby  at  once  became  the  Q  Ranch 
baby  and  everyone  accepted  him  as  a  personal 
responsibility. 

And  December  recorded  my  first  trouble  with  my 
little  hired  girl!  It  came  about  —  innocently  — 
through  Lizbeth.  She  had  been  out  in  the  car  a 
great  deal  all  winter  and  the  fresh,  crisp  air  was 
giving  her  color.  She  looked  less  cloistered.  She 
was  generally  lively  and  spirited  unless  in  one  of  her 
despondent  moods,  and  these  had  not  possessed  her 
so  often  of  late.  I  had  found  that  these  moods  could 
be  dispelled.  She  did  not  nurse  them,  she  tried  to 
avoid  them,  and  she  responded  gaily  to  every  attempt 
I  made  to  coax  her  out  of  them.  Sometimes  it  was 
with  a  half-sob  in  her  throat,  but  still  she  would  bat 
her  eyes  hard  and  try  to  come  out  of  it.  Mr.  Regan 
had  got  over  his  way  of  sending  us  all  off  to  bed  at 
nine  o'clock;  he  left  Lizbeth  more  to  me.  Some 
times  when  I  had  to  make  a  trip  to  Two  Forks  he 
would  say,  "  Hop  in,  Lizbeth,  and  go  along/'  in  a 
casual  way  that  left  me  undecided  whether  his  object 
was  to  put  a  check  on  me  or  to  benefit  Lizbeth.  I 
think  very  little  escaped  Mr.  Regan;  he  was  too 
shrewd  to  miss  anything;  I  believe  he  knew  Liz- 
beth's  secret,  which  she  thought  she  kept  so  relig 
iously  from  him,  but  humored  her  in  her  illusion. 

The  day  before  Christmas  he  suggested  a  drive 


262  Happy  Valley 

around  Happy  Valley  just  to  see  that  no  one  was 
suffering.  "We  can't  forget  wells,  can  we,  Billy?" 
he  said  with  a  sympathetic  laugh.  At  the  last 
moment,  when  I  was  ready  to  drive  off,  Lizbeth 
came  to  the  door  with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  We 
both  realized  at  the  same  moment,  I  think,  that 
Lizbeth,  since  the  advent  of  young  James,  had  stayed 
in  too  closely.  The  infant  was  now  two  weeks  old 
and  Lizbeth  was  pale. 

"  Get  into  your  togs,  Lizbeth,  and  go  along,"  he 
said.  "Wait  —  wait  a  minute,  Billy.  Lizbeth  bet 
ter  go  along." 

Lizbeth  protested;  the  baby  must  not  get  into 
bad  habits;  he  must  be  fed  regularly  and  made  to 
nap,  and  besides  Mother  Clark  was  done  out  with 
all  that  work  and  — 

"  That's  so,"  said  Regan,  frowning.  "  That's  so ; 
Mother  Clark's  had  it  all ;  that  won't  do ;  can't  let 
Mother  Clark  be  getting  off  her  feed;  she  must 
have  help;  bring  Susie  along  back,"  he  added. 
"Her  father  can  stay  with  one  of  his  other  girls; 
bring  Susie  back." 

Lizbeth  meantime  had  gone  away  with  the  baby; 
he  called  to  her  to  hurry.  It  was  a  long  drive  and 
we  must  be  off  before  the  sun  melted  the  snow  on 
the  mountain. 

She  came  out  wearing  a  white  wool  cap  that  was 


Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse          263 

pulled  down  snugly  over  her  head  and  a  long,  hand 
some  beaver  coat,  a  Christmas  present  from  her 
uncle.  With  her  fluffy  brown  hair  edging  the  cap, 
a  faint  pink  flush  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  large, 
luminous  gray  eyes  unusually  lighted  up  over  the 
prospect  of  a  change,  she  looked  remarkably  pretty. 
She  had  a  dainty,  well-bred  air  that  made  me  think 
of  Ennis.  Her  uncle,  seeing  her,  smiled  appre 
ciatively  over  her  appearance,  then  telling  me  to 
wait  a  minute  he  went  into  the  house  and  brought 
out  another  fur  coat,  a  great  bearskin,  which  he 
handed  me;  it  was  his  Christmas  present.  He 
would  listen  to  no  thanks,  but  busied  himself  tuck 
ing  us  both  in,  even  calling  to  old  Mex  in  the  cook 
house  to  bring  a  foot  warmer.  Everything  must 
be  snug  and  comfortable.  Lizbeth  leaned  from  the 
car  and  kissed  the  top  of  his  head  and  nestled  her 
arm  around  his  neck  in  a  quick,  impulsive  hug,  and 
we  were  off. 

She  was  in  one  of  her  rebellious  moods.  I  liked 
Lizbeth  in  a  rebellious  mood.  Too  often  she  was 
resigned  and  nun-like.  Lizbeth  was  wanting  life 
today  —  life  and  joy  and  fulfillment  —  and  she 
wanted  things  righted  for  her  Uncle  John,  and  she 
wanted  them  now. 

"Always  Uncle  John  is  sacrificing  himself  and 
always  he  is  being  fought,"  she  said  heatedly.  "  If 


264 Happy  Valley 

he  were  a  bad  man  with  a  cruel  design  to  do  business 
against  the  human  race,  he  couldn't  be  more  perse 
cuted.  It  makes  me  perfectly  wild!  And  all  the 
time  he  goes  along  so  calmly  and  patiently ! " 

"I  wonder,"  I  said,  "if  his  being  so  persecuted 
in  trying  to  do  good  to  people,  and  evil  men  being 
so  let  alone  in  their  evil,  is  not  rather  a  sad  com 
mentary  on  our  civilization.  There  are  so  many 
more  evil  to  flock  to  the  evil  than  good  to  flock  to 
the  good." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  in  no  mood  to  general 
ize.  "  I  only  know  that  he  is  always  thinking  out 
big  things  for  people ;  and  all  the  detail  he  manages 
to  attend  to  —  think  of  his  remembering  the  foot 
warmer!"  She  wiped  her  eyes,  for  the  tears  were 
falling  fast.  "If  I  die  before  —  before  he  gets  his 
ease  in  life,  before  his  long  battle  is  won  —  and  a 
railroad  gets  in  —  oh,  Billy,  it's  hard!" 

She  rarely  used  my  name. 

"Lizbeth,"  I  said  —  I  rarely  used  hers,  I  don't 
know  why — "you  certainly  did  need  this  trip. 
Your  nerves  are  upset.  Why  do  you  talk  so  ?  You 
never  looked  less  like  dying." 

"I  don't  know;  I  am  upset;  I  know  it;  if  I  were 
my  own  patient  I  would  order  a  complete  change 
for  a  few  days." 

"  Then  order  it  and  we  will  stay  over  night  with 


Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse          265 

Mother  Lattig.  She  is  a  wonder  and  to  think  you 
have  never  met  her.  We  will  drive  all  today  and 
have  an  evening  with  Mother  Lattig  and — wait  — 
better  still  —  I  heard  they  were  to  have  a  dance  at 
Mother  Lattig's  tonight.  They  call  her  cabin  the 
schoolhouse — 'the  bucket-of -blood  schoolhouse' — " 

"Why  'the  bucket-of -blood  schoolhouse'?" 

I  remembered  the  origin  of  the  name.  It  arose 
from  a  now  famous  encounter  with  one  Bullpit 
whose  nose  had  been  bloodied.  But  I  couldn't  tell  on 
Bullpit ;  Susie  never  had ;  she  had  been  silent  about 
him  so  I  evaded :  "  Oh,  it's  picturesque,  I  suppose. 
We  will  stay  and  dance  and  tomorrow  drive  all  day, 
taking  Susie  along,  and  then  —  " 

"What  will  Uncle  John  think?" 

"  We  can  send  him  word ;  Ed's  down  there  now 
with  a  load  of  supplies ;  he'll  take  the  word  back." 

We  talked  along  and  I  told  her  stories  of  Mother 
Lattig.  She  bravely  tried  to  respond  and  choked 
back  the  sob  in  her  throat  and  made  an  effort  at 
gayety.  Finally  running  out  of  material  I  told  her 
of  Susie's  encounter  with  her  teacher  leaving  out 
Bullpit's  name.  It  pleased  her  immensely.  "  What 
a  girl  she  is ! "  Lisbeth  exclaimed.  "  What  wouldn't 
I  give  for  her  strength!"  Her  eyes  filled  with  a 
look  of  wistful  envy.  I  wondered  if  she  wasn't  so 
well.  At  last  she  confessed.  There  had  been  a 


266  Happy  Valley 

hemorrhage  —  a  slight  one,  but  it  was  the  beginning. 
She  knew  the  end. 

And  then  she  became  gay,  recklessly  gay.  She 
made  me  drive  rapidly ;  she  teased ;  she  dropped  into 
the  country's  queer  dialect,  made  up  from  that  of 
Germans,  Swedes,  and  Italians,  who  were  learning 
their  English  from  buckaroos  whose  English  in  turn 
was  highly  colored  with  the  language  of  the  Mexican 
drivers.  She  could  imitate  it  to  perfection  and  it 
was  screamingly  funny.  She  was  a  feverishly 
excited  Lizbeth.  I  began  to  fear  about  the  dance ;  I 
suggested  that  after  all  her  Uncle  might  worry  — 
perhaps  we  had  better  go  back. 

"  No,"  she  said  with  a  defiant  toss  of  her  head, 
"I  am  going  to  dance  tonight  —  and  dance  and 
dance  and  dance  —  you  dance  of  course?" 

"I  haven't  since  I  came  West.  Yes,  I  dance  —  it 
was  in  the  curriculum.  I  began  at  nine,  hating  it. 
But  now  I'm  glad." 

"You  are  an  awfully  well-brought-up  person," 
she  said,  sighing,  her  head  to  one  side  as  she  eyed 
me.  "And  I  —  well,  any  way  I  always  had  lots 
of  everything  that  wasn't  good  for  me.  Girls 
without  mothers  and  with  indulgent  Uncle  Johns 
do." 

We  found  our  old  man  alone  in  his  tent.  He  was 
converting  a  kerosene  can  into  a  new  chimney  for 


Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse          267 

the  stovepipe.  The  tent  was  cold  —  he  had  had  to 
let  the  fire  go  out  so  he  could  work  on  his  stovepipe. 
The  old  pipe  hole  had  split  down  and  he  had  put  a 
patch  over  it,  a  patch  cut  from  the  legs  of  abandoned 
overalls.  The  tent  looked  forlorn  and  lonesome  and 
a  little  despairing,  as  though  it  had  kept  up  just  as 
long  as  it  could  without  its  mother-spirit.  We  asked 
for  Susie.  Susie  was  over  toward  the  hills  inspecting 
her  traps.  She  had  gone  horseback.  He  showed  us 
a  pile  of  skins,  coyotes  mostly,  with  a  few  timber 
wolves. 

"  Susie's  been  right  lucky,"  he  said,  scratching  his 
stubby  chin  and  eyeing  them  speculatively,  "Right 
lucky." 

I  remembered  that  coyotes  brought  a  bounty  of 
three  dollars  a  skin,  and  timber  wolves  fifteen.  And 
I  remembered  Susie's  love  for  wild  animals  and  her 
horror  of  killing  them.  Susie  was  feeling  a 
tremendous  urge  to  make  money  when  she  would 
resort  to  trapping.  Our  old  man  seemed  to  me 
thinner  than  when  I  saw  him  last.  He  needed  his 
wife  at  home  —  and  Susie  —  Susie  was  making 
money  trapping;  Susie,  who  had  cried  so  over  the 
trapped  jack  rabbits  when  they  whined  like  babies 
and  plead  with  bright  human  eyes  that  we  had  had 
to  let  them  go  —  Susie  was  trapping  timber  wolves 
and  coyotes. 


268  Happy  Valley 

"  Let's  go  find  her,"  cried  Lizbeth,  still  in  fever 
ishly  high  vSpirits.  "  I  want  to  see  Susie.  I  want  to 
see  her  traps/' 

Our  old  man  pointed  out  the  direction  and  we 
started  off.  Lizbeth  was  the  talkative  one  now.  I 
was  sick  with  the  sense  of  what  Susie's  trapping 
meant. 

We  came  upon  her  as  she  bent  over  a  trap.  She 
had  just  shot  the  coyote  —  we  heard  the  shot  ring 
out  and  wondered  about  it.  Her  rifle  lay  in  the 
snow  where  she  had  thrown  it ;  she  had  not  heard  us ; 
she  must  have  been  very  intent.  She  was  kneeling 
in  the  snow,  bending  above  the  animal  that  lay  dead, 
its  head  against  her  lap.  I  stopped  the  car  and  she 
looked  up.  She  got  to  her  feet  dragging  up  the  dead 
coyote  in  her  arms.  She  hastily  drew  her  sleeve 
across  her  eyes.  She  wore  blue  overalls,  a  much- 
worn  white  felt  sport  hat  pulled  tightly  over  her 
head,  and  a  shabby  bright  red  sweater.  I  sprang  out 
of  the  car  and  Lizbeth  came  tumbling  after  me; 
Lizbeth,  a  picture  of  happy  prosperity  in  her  long, 
luxurious  fur  coat,  her  eyes  dancing  with  excitement, 
and  the  little  silk  tassel  tossing  gaily  about  her  head. 

"  Susie,"  I  called  to  her,  but  she  drew  back  as  we 
approached.  Lizbeth,  still  feverishly  excited,  began 
prattling  gaily  of  a  thousand  things.  She  was  in 
that  feverish  mood  when  girls  run  on  at  random 


Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse          269 

never  noticing  where  their  shots  hit.  And  all  the 
time  she  was  coming  across  the  new  fallen  snow  to 
shabby,  forlorn  little  Susie,  hugging  her  dead  coyote 
to  her  breast,  tears  on  her  cheeks,  her  gun  at  her  feet. 

"  How  cunning  you  look,"  cried  Lizbeth,  leveling 
her  camera  for  a  snap  shot.  Lizbeth  always  carried 
her  camera.  "  Susie,  what  a  perfect  boy  you  make ! " 
Susie's  fine,  straight  well-rounded  young  limbs  were 
well  displayed  in  the  overalls.  Her  face  below  the 
felt  hat  was  boyishly  pretty  —  no  locks  ever  escaped 
from  the  smooth  order  of  her  flaxen  braids  and 
bands  —  and  her  lips  were  like  coral.  Lizbeth  came 
on  and  kissed  her  cheek,  lightly.  "Susie  dear,  I 
just  had  to  see  you.  How  cunning  you  look!"  she 
repeated.  I  wished  all  at  once  that  the  handsome 
fur  coat  I  was  wearing  was  back  at  the  Q  Ranch, 
that  I  was  in  the  habiliments  of  Happy  Valley.  We 
were  too  well  dressed  standing  there  in  the  new 
fallen  snow.  We  appeared  gay,  happy,  prosperous 
people,  and  there  stood  my  poor  little  hired  girl 
hugging  to  her  breast  a  coyote  out  of  which  she  had 
sent  the  life  that  she  and  those  she  loved  might  live 
—  my  poor  little  shabby  hired  girl,  who  was  really 
by  so  much  the  richest  of  the  three! 

Susie  went  through  the  forms.  Lizbeth  turned 
her  attention  to  the  dead  coyote.  Susie  told  us  she 
had  found  him  with  his  foot  broken  and  had  shot 


270 Happy  Valley 

him  at  once.  She  hoped  he  had  not  been  there  long. 
He  was  still  fighting  so  probably  he  had  not  been. 
She  wished  she  could  get  more  timber  wolves  for 
the  bounty  on  a  timber  wolf  was  five  times  that  of  a 
coyote;  and  the  timber  wolves  did  harm;  they  took 
the  young  calves  and  pigs  and  chickens.  The 
coyotes  didn't  do  much  harm.  Her  head  went  down 
to  the  coyote's  head,  hanging  limp  over  her  arm,  and 
her  chin  caressed  it. 

Lizbeth  wanted  her  to  get  in  the  car  and  ride 
around  with  us  making  calls.  But  Susie  insisted 
she  had  other  traps  to  visit.  She  had  ten  now  and 
she  must  visit  them  every  day,  for  an  animal  might 
be  in  distress.  It  made  her  housekeeping  rather 
bad ;  she  was  afraid  we  had  found  the  tent  in  sorry 
shape.  And  all  the  time  her  eyes  were  just  quiet 
star  eyes  with  never  a  twinkle  in  them,  and  her 
mouth  resolute  and  still.  I  asked  her  to  drive  the 
car  —  I  had  taught  her  to  drive  —  and  let  me  make 
the  rounds  of  the  traps.  I  picked  up  her  gun  and 
began  to  pull  off  my  coat. 

"No,"  she  said  with  firm  positiveness,  "I  must 
do  it.  I  am  prepared."  She  lifted  her  foot;  the 
shoe  had  been  patched  by  her  father.  "My  shoes 
are  scented ;  yours  are  not/' 

"  Then  we  shall  see  you  tonight,"  called  Lizbeth, 
going  back  to  the  car,  for  the  air  was  sharp  and  cold. 


Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse          271 

" Tonight? "  Susie  paused;  she  had  taken  the  gun 
from  me. 

"At  the  dance;  we're  staying  for  it.  You'll  be 
there,  of  course?" 

"  I  will  drive  over  for  you,"  I  said,  getting  in  the 
car. 

"Never  mind."  she  called  back,  "Father  will 
take  me.  Father  would  be  disappointed  not  to  take 
me  in  —  in  —  the  buckboard." 

We  drove  on  toward  other  homesteaders'  tents, 
but  I  could  not  throw  off  my  own  bad  mood.  "  It  is 
all  my  fault!"  I  explained  to  Lizbeth  about  the 
square  knot  that  I  had  not  known  how  to  tie,  and 
Susie  trapping  to  make  money  so  her  mother  could 
come  home  very  likely.  I  told  her  how  Susie  hated 
to  see  anything  killed. 

"  Isn't  the  world  just  one  great  big  problem  ? " 
Lizbeth  swallowed  a  sob,  "but  any  way,  tonight 
we'll  dance;  let  me  be  gay,  Billy,  and  —  and  dance! " 

It  wasn't  fair  to  Lizbeth.  I  cheered  up  and  kept 
the  talk  in  lively  channels. 

Mother  Lattig  wept  and  laughed  over  us :  "  Lord, 
I  just  am  surprised,"  she  kept  repeating  in  her  deep 
throaty  voice  that  always  put  so  much  feeling  into 
her  words.  Lizbeth  was  charmed  with  her,  also 
with  her  soup,  also  to  see  Tom  again.  Tom  was  a 
good-looking  fellow  and  spoke  good  English.  He 


272  Happy  Valley 

had  big,  black  eyes  and  sooty  black  hair,  and  pale- 
olive  skin  with  red  lips,  and  the  whitest  large  sound 
teeth.  To  me  the  finest  thing  about  him  was  his 
appearance  of  perfect  health.  He  was  as  sound  as 
a  Baldwin  apple.  Lizbeth  insisted  he  had  a  poetic 
strain  that  was  very  appealing,  but  I  still  think  it 
was  his  physique. 

The  schoolhouse  which  now  served  for  social 
purposes  in  the  valley,  was  in  a  state  of  preparation 
for  the  dance.  The  furniture  such  as  it  was  had 
been  moved  out,  the  benches  placed  against  the  wall, 
and  the  teacher's  desk  turned  into  a  banquet  table. 
Every  one  was  to  bring  something;  there  would  be 
a  big  feed.  Mother  Lattig  was  tremendously  excited 
over  her  spiced  cakes  and  cookies.  Also  she  had 
made  a  great  pot  of  her  famous  soup;  she  said  it 
would  come  in  right  handy  after  the  long  ride. 
Many  were  coming  from  thirty  miles  away.  Tom 
had  borrowed  Susie's  phonograph  for  the  music. 
We  went  over  the  records  for  dance  music  trying  to 
find  some  that  were  not  scratched. 

"  It's  more  fun  than  a  barrel  of  monkeys,"  Lizbeth 
whispered,  squeezing  my  hand  as  she  put  on  a 
record.  "  No  wonder  you  like  homesteading." 

Lizbeth's  mood  kept  up;  and  when  the  guests 
began  to  arrive  her  hilarity  increased.  Lizbeth  was 
not  laughing  at  these  people ;  they  were  her  uncle's 


Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse 


273 


people,  of  his  country,  and  she  was  too  much  at  heart 
in  sympathy  with  their  hardships  to  smile  over  their 
pitiful  social  attempts.  I  think  she  could  have  cried 
more  easily ;  I  think  she  laughed  to  keep  from  crying 

sometimes.  There 
was  the  Dane's 
wife,  as  lean  as 
ever,  yanking 
along  a  little  girl 
by  each  hand;  she 
had  made  a  pa 
thetic  effort  to 
dress  them  up  for 
the  party;  and 
there  was  Sol 
Sneed  drawing  his 
sleeve  at  intervals 
across  his  eye  that 
would  water ;  there 
were  Susie's  sisters,  neat  and  brown  and  wholesome 
in  dresses  brought  from  town  two  years  earlier ;  and  a 
row  of  little  Dutch  girls,  all  smaller  copies  of  Leeda 
who  was  more  timid  than  ever,  and  more  quaintly 
dressed.  Susie  came  late  with  her  father  —  Susie, 
in  an  immaculate  white  blouse  and  a  much-mended 
blue  serge  skirt,  looking  like  a  high-school  girl  fresh 
for  a  ball  game,  but  with  something  gone  from  the 


Leeda 


274  Happy  Valley 

little  romping  schoolgirl  who  had  come  into  the 
valley,  something  besides  ribbons. 

Lizbeth  was  a  beautiful  dancer;  also  she  knew 
the  newer  steps,  and  soon  we  were  trying  them 
together.  The  rest  sat  down  to  watch  us.  When 
we  finished  dancing  they  clapped  vigorously,  and 
Lizbeth,  all  aflush  and  happy,  her  eyes  shining, 
dragged  me  to  the  floor  again.  I  thought  it  was  not 
good  for  her,  but  she  whispered:  "Forget  what  is 
good  for  me;  let  me  be  happy  —  tonight." 

I  went  to  Susie  for  the  next  dance,  but  she  had 
it  with  Tom  Lattig.  After  that  Lizbeth  and  I  had 
several  dances  in  succession.  She  wanted  the  newer 
dances  of  play  and  jollity,  and  the  others  did  not 
know  them.  We  went  out  on  to  the  porch  and 
danced  out  there  alone,  feeling  that  we  must  not 
interfere  with  the  others'  pleasure,  for  invariably 
when  we  started  a  different  dance  they  stopped  and 
watched  us.  We  were  not  of  them,  we  were  apart. 
I  over-heard  one  of  the  newer  homesteaders  whisper 
to  another,  "  Stuck  up's ! " 

And  all  the  time  it  was  to  Lizbeth  as  a  last  wild 
fling  at  youth  and  happiness.  It  was  a  pitifully  tragic 
night  had  they  only  known,  they  who  envied  Lizbeth. 

By  midnight  they  had  forgotten  that  we  were 
stuck-up's.  They  were  dancing  with  too  much 
abandon  to  think  about  us.  Tom  invited  Lizbeth 


Dance  at  the  Schoolhouse          275 

but  the  other  men  were  shy  about  asking  her ;  I  saw 
that  she  didn't  lose  a  dance.  Whenever  Tom  danced 
with  Lizbeth  I  tried  to  get  Susie  for  a  partner ;  but 
Susie  was  not  her  old  self  —  she  seemed  still  seeing 
the  pleading  eyes  of  a  wounded  coyote  which  begged 
her  not  to  shoot. 

Mother  Lattig  announced  supper  and  every  one 
found  places  about  the  benches  —  that  is  every  one 
who  was  not  helping  to  serve.  All  were  in  fine 
spirits  now;  even  the  Dane's  wife's  eyes  were  alight 
with  something  like  pleasure,  and  Sol  Sneed  sniffed 
hungrily  and  rubbed  his  eye  every  minute.  It 
seemed  to  water  at  sight  of  food.  Some  one,  while 
waiting  to  be  served,  stepped  idly  to  the  phonograph 
and  put  on  a  record.  It  chanced  to  be  that  only 
unscratched  one  of  the  old  days : 

Some  one  to  love  and  cheer  you 
Sometimes  when  things  go  wrong; 

Some  one  to  snuggle  near  you, 
Some  one  to  share  your  song. 

Some  one  to  call  you  sweetheart 
After  the  day  is  done — 

At  this  point  Susie  came  in  bearing  a  tray  of  spiced 
cookies.  She  stopped  in  the  doorway,  then  quickly 
put  down  her  tray  and  stepping  up  to  the  phonograph, 
took  off  the  record,  broke  it  across  her  knee,  and 
flung  the  pieces  out  into  the  snow.  I  looked 


276  Happy  Valley 


strangely  at  my  little  hired  girl  —  it  had  been  our 
song! 

I  went  out  and  got  the  car.  When  I  came  in  every 
one  was  drinking  soup ;  you  would  have  known  they 
were  drinking  soup  without  coming  in.  It  was  very 
good  soup.  Lizbeth  was  also  having  a  cup  of  it  with 
Tom.  I  went  over  to  her. 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  home." 

"But  —  Billy!  We're  having  such  a  good  time 
and  they  will  dance  till  daylight,  Tom  tells  me!" 

"  It  is  moonlight  and  I  can  make  it  in  two  hours. 
We  didn't  send  word  to  Mr.  Regan — he  will  be 
alarmed." 

She  got  up  reluctantly.  "  Poor  Uncle  John ;  and 
it's  Christmas  eve  for  him,  too  —  and  he's  all  alone. 
Yes,  let  us  go  by  all  means." 

Her  recklessness  was  gone;  her  short  day  of 
abandon  to  mere  youth  gone,  too,  as  swiftly  as  it 
had  come;  but  the  results  of  that  day  were  to  go 
with  us  down  the  years. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

DARK   HOURS 

"YT  7HEN  everybody  else  is  sick,  be  well!" 

T  V  I  had  told  John  Regan  all  that  was  in 
my  mind.  I  must  leave  the  country;  I  must  get 
to  town  somewhere,  somehow,  and  get  a  start  at 
something  that  would  make  money.  Our  old  man 
was  failing,  Mother  Clark  was  eating  her  heart  out 
over  the  long  absence  from  her  family  —  at  sixty 
eating  her  heart  out  with  home  sickness;  Susie  — 
Susie  was  killing  wild  animals  and  carrying  their 
haunting  eyes  in  her  memory  to  grieve  over;  poor 
little  Susie  trying  bravely  to  help. 

It  was  useless  for  them  to  struggle  on.  They  must 
get  out.  The  country  was  locked  up  tighter  than  a 
drum.  The  railroad  was  not  building  in  —  was  no 
nearer  building  in  than  it  had  been  for  thirty  years. 
Jim  was  discouraged  now  as  well  as  Ed ;  the  Book- 
farmer  was  broke;  the  Dutchman's  girls  were 
working  on  the  road  like  men.  Only  the  foreigners 
could  stand  it;  the  Dane  was  getting  his  ranch 
improved;  the  Lattigs  were  making  things  go. 
Foreigners  could  stand  to  eat  potatoes  and  beans 

277 


278  Happy  Valley 

three  times  a  day;  they  could  stand  to  work  like 
galley  slaves,  the  women  along  with  the  men.  But 
it  was  too  much  to  ask  of  American  families.  The 
pioneering  would  have  to  be  done  by  foreigners;  it 
was  too  hard  for  our  people. 

I  must  get  away.  I  had  some  money  coming  to 
me,  and  I  must  get  away;  I  would  work  as  I  had 
never  worked  before.  I  would  get  a  start  and  help 
the  old  man,  help  make  up  for  the  injury  I  had 
caused  him.  I  had  been  a  curse  to  every  one  who 
had  ever  befriended  me.  I  brought  only  misfortune 
into  people's  lives.  It  had  had  to  be  my  fate  to 
bring  this  crowning  disaster  of  disablement  on  our 
old  man ;  I  must  do  something. 

We  were  driving  along  in  the  car  to  Two  Forks. 
Lizbeth  was  in  bed  with  a  severe  sore  throat  —  and 
I  felt  guilty  for  that,  too ;  I  should  not  have  let  her 
dance  on  the  porch. 

He  let  me  talk  it  all  out;  and  then  it  was  he 
turned  to  me  almost  sadly,  and  said:  "Billy,  when 
every  one  else  is  sick,  be  well."  I  had  nothing 
to  say. 

"You  talk  of  giving  the  country  over  to  foreign 
ers:  you  mean  give  it  over  to  ignorance,  to  people 
who  don't  know  any  better  —  to  people  you've  no 
conscience  about  killing  off.  You've  got  the  universal 
point  of  view :  Here  we  take  so  much  pride  in  our 


Dark  Hours  279 


cities  in  building  up  our  public-school  system,  in 
educating  boys  and  girls  to  ideals  of  luxury  and 
convenience,  to  modern  equipment,  to  wholesome 
food,  bath  tubs  and  machine  conveniences  —  and 
then  we  turn  them  onto  a  proposition  like  this.  Billy, 
this  is  our  country ;  it's  for  our  boys  and  girls ;  we've 
got  to  make  it  fit  for  them  —  for  the  kind  of  product 
our  own  civilization  is  turning  out." 

"  And  in  the  meantime  let  the  country  grind  the 
very  life  out  of  people  who  are  —  worth  too  much. 
It  isn't  fair ! " 

He  said  nothing. 

"A  man  can't  so  much  as  shoot  a  wild  duck  to 
keep  his  family  from  starving,"  I  went  on.  "He 
can't  bring  in  a  deer  from  the  hills.  He  can't  cut  a 
stick  of  wood.  He  can't  force  a  railroad.  He  can 
only  sit  back  and  wait  —  thirty  years  —  another 
thirty — for  some  one  man  with  the  legal  authority 
to  decide  whether  or  not  the  country  shall  be  opened 
up.  God!" 

"That's  it,  Billy;  that's  it;  that's  what's  got  to 
be  changed." 

"And  in  the  slow  march  of  time  while  these 
things  are  being  changed  by  men  in  the  East  who 
don't  know  a  damn  thing  about  them  and  never  were 
hungry  or  cold  or  lonely  or  in  danger  in  their  lives, 
let  the  Clarks  die  off  —  the  Clarks  and  others  like 


280  Happy  Valley 

them  —  the  real  citizens  who  would  do  something 
for  the  country  if  they  had  a  chance." 

"You're  saying  it  well,  Billy;  you've  got  it  all 
learned  right  out  of  life  which  is  the  only  way  to 
learn  anything.  Everything  else  is  just  hearsay.  I 
think  I  said  all  these  things  to  you  a  while  back  and 
they  were  just  words  then;  you  see  you  had  to  get 
it  into  your  veins  —  live  it  —  to  really  know.  They're 
just  words  to  those  men  back  East,  too.  That's 
knowledge,  Billy;  real  knowledge  which  is  just  the 
difference  between  what  you  learn  out  of  books  and 
what  you  know  from  life." 

"If  the  case  goes  against  you,"  I  went  on,  "and 
you  are  not  permitted  to  finish  the  canal  —  " 

"That  ain't  the  way  to  figure,  Billy." 

"And  in  the  meantime  —  " 

"  Nothing  hurts  anyone,  Billy,"  he  said  with  great 
patience,  "but  what  they  miss.  Don't  go  robbing 
these  people  of  their  chance  to  do  a  real  thing  with 
their  lives.  Suppose  they  all  pull  out  and  go  to 
town:  suppose  they  get  jobs  that  keep  them  com 
fortably  housed  and  fed  —  what  will  their  lives  have 
stood  for?  Leave  that  roped-off-between-banisters 
life  for  men  without  vision,  Billy.  There's  plenty 
of  them,  Lord  knows.  It's  a  big  thing  to  unlock  a 
country.  In  all  America  there  isn't  another  situation 
like  this  one.  It's  a  big  thing  to  be  the  ones  that 


Dark  Hours  281 


unlock  it  for  Americans.  Why  rob  them  of  doing 
this  big  thing?" 

"  Mother  Clark  must  go  home."  I  fell  back  on 
the  original  problem. 

"  I've  been  thinking  that  too ;  and  get  Ed's  wife 
up  here." 

"  Ed's  wife  isn't  strong  on  cooking,"  I  said.  "  Ed 
is  a  great  cook;  once  worked  in  a  bakery." 

"  Ed  ?  Can  he  cook  ?  Now  isn't  that  fine !  Ed 
isn't  strong  on  wrangling  cattle,  Raz  says,  and  we 
don't  need  him.  Put  him  in  the  cookhouse  with  his 
wife  helping.  The  school  children  go  home  in  a  day 
or  so.  Let  Ed  and  his  wife  run  the  cookhouse." 

Even  this  let-down  helped. 

"I'm  hoping  to  bring  David  Mill  in  here,  Billy, 
as  soon  as  the  weather  breaks.  I'd  have  had  him 
before  but  the  indictment  won't  let  me  leave  the 
state  to  go  after  him.  He  is  scheduled  to  make  a 
trip  to  the  coast  in  his  private  car  this  spring  and 
I  plan  to  go  out  and  fetch  him  in  to  see  the  country. 
You're  right  —  we've  got  to  have  a  railroad  —  and 
have  it  quick.  Merriman  has  fooled  us  with  his 
surveys  and  promises  just  about  long  enough.  We've 
got  to  get  Mill  interested  —  it's  the  only  way. 

"  By  the  way,  Billy,  when  Mrs.  Whitten  is  strong 
enough  I  want  to  send  her  down  to  stay  on  her 
ranch  for  awhile.  She  must  prove  up ;  it  would  be 


282  Happy  Valley 


a  shame  for  her  to  lose  it;  when  that  boy  of  hers 
comes  of  age  there  won't  be  any  government  land. 
I  wish  in  a  few  days  you  would  go  down  that  way 
and  see  that  everything  is  comfortable.  Get  some 
of  the  Happy  Valley  people  to  help  put  up  her  cabin. 
The  neighbors  must  take  hold  and  help  —  it's  good 
for  them.  Maybe  you  can  get  the  Book- farmer  to 
do  a  little  clearing  and  plowing  for  her." 

"  I  think/'  I  said,  smiling,  "  the  Book-farmer  will 
not  be  popular  with  Raz  as  a  hired  man  for  the  little 
widow." 

"You  think  not,  Billy?  Well,  Raz'd  better  be 
looking  after  that  ranch  of  hers  then;  but  you  go 
down  for  awhile  any  way,  Billy.  Wouldn't  you  like 
to  go  down  for  awhile? " 

I  was  at  work  on  the  widow's  ranch  before  I 
realized  the  design  in  this.  How  we  were  all 
managed  by  him!  He  had  wanted  to  divert  my 
attention  from  going  to  town,  once  more  get  me 
linked  in  with  the  soil  and  the  future  of  the  country. 
I  spent  a  few  days  on  my  own  ranch,  and  drank 
deeply  of  the  spring  water  and  planned  my  stone 
house  and  my  rabbit  wire  and  my  first  crop;  and 
then  I  rode  over  to  see  my  desert  claim ;  it  lay  as  I 
had  left  it,  sheltered  and  beautiful  in  its  snow- 
mantled  hills.  I  had  got  an  extension  of  time,  but 
the  well  must  be  finished  that  spring. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

WAITING   FOR   SPRING 

WHILE  the  plowing  and  sowing  and  fencing 
and  straining  and  starving  and  building  on 
the  future  went  on  among  the  homesteaders  of 
Happy  Valley,  the  atmosphere  of  the  past  clung 
tenaciously  to  the  buckaroo  outfit  at  the  Q  Ranch 
and  similar  outfits  at  the  other  big  cattle  ranches. 
The  sombreroed  buckaroos  and  soft-voiced  Mexican 
drivers  were  all  but  oblivious  to  the  passing  of  the 
open  range  and  the  coming  of  the  cultivated  farm. 

A  wholly  new  people  would  have  to  tame  the 
land :  these  oldtime  cattle  drivers  could  never  become 
tillers  of  the  soil.  Governed  only  by  the  buckaroo 
boss,  the  buckaroo  is  a  prince  of  the  range,  a  son  of 
the  royal  house  of  cattle.  He  will  spend  his  life 
running  cattle  and  when  there  are  no  more  cattle  to 
run  in  our  country  he  will  become  a  pensioner  of 
his  cattle  king  or  move  on  to  Australia  or  Mexico 
where  there  is  still  open  range.  He  will  never  work 
with  his  hands  or  tramp  over  ground  on  his  feet. 

And  so  as  the  winter  weather  began  to  break  up 
he  again  rode  the  range  in  happy  unconcern  of  the 

283 


284  Happy  Valley 


new  life  building  up  about  him;  he  smoked  his 
endless  cigarettes,  he  talked  horse  and  dreamed  horse 
and  spent  his  salary  on  gay  trappings,  for  his  whole 
world  lay  open  to  a  sunny  sky  and  the  whole  business 
of  his  life  was  to  find  deep  grass  and  sweet  water 
for  a  bunch  of  cattle.  The  future?  Would  it  not 
be  like  today  —  and  yesterday?  Would  there  not 
always  be  a  bunch  of  cattle  to  get  into  the  hills,  a 
cigarette  to  roll,  a  song  to  sing,  the  open  range,  and 
when  the  day  ended  the  grub  wagon  and  a  pair  of 
blankets  ? 

Often  in  our  long  drives  John  Regan  and  I  would 
pass  a  buckaroo  sitting  a-hunch  on  his  horse  and 
smiling  amusedly  as  he  watched  with  careless 
indifference  a  prairie  schooner  dragging  its  way  into 
the  country.  The  schooner  would  be  leaking  plows, 
spades,  hoes,  women,  and  children.  Sometimes  he 
would  appear  to  be  sympathetic;  there  was  no 
question  with  him  as  to  what  would  happen  —  or 
what  ought  to  happen  for  that  matter.  The  country 
would  get  them  all  right.  He  had  no  doubt  of  the 
continual  defeat  of  would-be  settlers,  the  continued 
reign  of  the  cattle  men.  He  was  sorry  for  them,  but 
how  could  they  be  such  durn  fools,  "  disturbin'  the 
soil  that  the  Lord  A'mighty  put  grass  on  for  cattle." 

At  the  Q  Ranch  old  Sody  went  solemnly  about 
intent  on  his  many  leppies ;  and  the  little  leppy  baby 


Waiting  for  Spring  285 

learned  to  suck  his  thumb  and  smile  all  over  his 
funny,  boy  face,  and  didn't  know  in  the  least  that 
he  lived  amidst  tragedies;  and  the  leppy  baby's 
mother  continued  helpless  and  inefficient,  only 
knowing  to  croon  to  her  baby  and  look  up  with 
startled  fawn  eyes  that  now  smiled  when  the  big 
buckaroo  boss  came  near;  and  the  pink-and- white 
teacher  —  who  spent  much  time  with  Lizbeth  — 
laughed  more  than  ever  and  her  eyes  shone  more 
brightly;  and  the  Book-farmer,  who  was  clearing 
her  ranch,  seemed  less  bookish  but  just  as  one- 
ideaed —  only  the  idea  was  a  different  one  now;  and 
Bullpit  dropped  in  on  us  occasionally  for  over  night, 
always  jaunty,  throwing  out  his  calves  and  feeling 
very  sure  of  himself  with  open  attentions  to  Lizbeth ; 
Lizbeth  amused  herself  with  him,  goodnaturedly 
non-critical.  Everything  was  temporary  with  Liz 
beth —  she  made  no  plans,  living  altogether  as  one 
without  a  future. 

I  plead  with  her  at  times  to  talk  frankly  with  her 
uncle  about  her  health.  No  doubt  there  were  things 
to  do  if  one  only  knew  what  they  were.  She  was 
very  pale  but  for  two  bright  spots  that  glowed  in  her 
cheeks  almost  constantly  now,  signalling  disaster. 

"With  all  that's  on  his  mind/'  she  would  come 
back,  "  the  trial  in  April,  the  effort  he  is  making  to 
interest  the  Mill  people,  his  perplexities  over  the 


286  Happy  Valley 

homesteaders,  and  the  stock  market  lower  than  it 
has  been  in  years  and  interest  higher  —  no,  no  Billy, 
I  won't  become  an  additional  expense.  I  have  cost 
him  too  much  already." 

"But  Lizbeth,"  I  would  reason,  "you  put  out  of 
the  case  the  value  of  pure  affection.  Think  of  his 
grief  if  he  should  lose  you." 

But  she  would  only  turn  this  argument  aside.  One 
day  I  reproached  her  with  selfishness.  "  How  can 
you  allow  yourself  to  go  out  of  life  knowing  it  will 
make  such  sorrow  for  others  ?  " 

"Others?" 

"Of  course  —  others." 

She  looked  away  and  a  mist  came  over  her  eyes. 
Then,  "  Billy,  I've  seen  it  happen  so  often.  They 
used  to  come  to  the  hospital  so  hopeful,  so  sure  that 
now  they  had  given  up  to  come  to  the  hospital  they 
would  get  well.  And  we  always  fooled  them  into 
thinking  they  would.  But  nearly  always,  Billy,  they 
went  down  and  out.  We  were  just  fooling  them." 

"  When  people  go  to  a  hospital  they  are  generally 
already  down  and  out.  You  haven't  gone  yet." 

"I  had  a  teacher  at  boarding  school,  the  one  I 
loved  best  of  all,  who  went  out  of  life  in  the  same 
way.  She  went  about  in  her  long,  black  robes  always 
coughing.  She  would' smile  and  talk  beautifully  to 
us  of  resignation,  but  all  the  time,  I  know  now,  she 


Waiting  for  Spring  287 

was  talking  to  herself,  bolstering  up  her  own 
resignation." 

"That  is  the  trouble,  Lizbeth;  I  never  hit  on  it 
before,"  I  exclaimed.  "You've  been  educated  to 
resignation.  Ennis  is  something  like  that  —  my 
sister  —  she  resigns  herself  to  things  put  on  her  and 
—  goes  down.  I  believe  —  why  Lizbeth,  I  believe 
that  is  a  great  big  fault  —  resignation.  You  must 
not  resign  yourself  to  anything.  The  thing,  Lizbeth, 
is  to  build  up  a  strong  wall  of  a  will  against  the 
thing.  It  isn't  anything  good  or  useful  —  just  a  set 
of  encroaching  germs  —  nothing  to  be  sentimental 
about.  Build  up  your  will  to  live !  " 

As  I  talked  I  saw  it  plainly.  Lizbeth  had  lain 
down  at  the  first  approach  of  the  enemy.  She  had 
accepted  it  as  fate,  as  a  thing  put  on  her  by  her 
father  and  impossible  of  eradication.  But  she  must 
conquer  it.  If  I  could  never  do  another  thing  for 
her  uncle  in  payment  for  all  he  had  done  for  me, 
I  must  do  this,  I  must  save  this  girl  whom  he  loved 
as  his  own  child. 

Lizbeth's  eyes  shone  with  a  new  light.  "Billy," 
she  confessed,  "  I  am  afraid  I've  made  an  interesting 
young  tragedy  of  myself.  I'm  awfully  afraid  I  have 
indulged  the  idea  of  an  early  death.  I've  thought 
too  steadily  of  how  I  love  life  and  how  cruel  it  is 
that  I  have  to  leave  it.  I  haven't  thought  enough 


288  Happy  Valley 

of  —  of  others,  Billy/'  she  clutched  my  hand  tightly, 
"  I'll  try  to  get  well  —  for  the  sake  of  —  of  others ! " 

I  confess  to  feeling  a  little  foolish  when  it  came 
over  me  that  I  had  only  repeated  Mr.  Regan's  talk 
to  me.  But  it  bore  fruit.  After  that  old  Sody  had 
a  new  responsibility;  every  morning  I  saw  him 
stumbling  along  to  the  ranchhouse  with  his  cap  in 
his  hand  and  in  it  several  large  fresh  eggs.  Lizbeth 
was  taking  raw  eggs  and  drinking  milk,  following 
the  rules  she  had  learned  in  the  hospital  but  which 
she  had  long  ago  given  up  as  useless  and  irksome. 
And  in  the  meantime  we  walked  and  talked  together 
and  she  cuddled  down  in  the  car  whenever  there  was 
an  empty  place,  and  the  storing  up  of  armament 
against  germs  went  heroically  on.  On  one  of  our 
trips  to  Two  Forks  I  urged  her  to  see  Dr.  Monk 
who  had  attended  our  old  man  and  me.  He  was  an 
excellent  physician,  a  little,  wiry,  nervous  man  who 
smoked  cigarettes  incessantly,  but  who  had  unusual 
ability  and  kept  brushed  up  on  the  latest  eastern  and 
European  methods.  Invariably  he  returned  from 
his  post-graduate  courses  to  take  up  his  work  in  the 
big  cattle  country,  for  these  people  were  like  his 
children.  He  loved  them  and  they  loved  him  and 
he  was  deaf  to  all  other  calls. 

Lizbeth  agreed ;  and  when  she  had  bound  him  to 
secrecy,  she  told  him  about  her  case.  When  I 


Waiting  for  Spring  289 

returned  for  her  later  she  was  chatting  happily  with 
the  doctor.  The  call  had  done  her  good. 

"  He  says,  Billy,"  she  confided  as  she  nestled  down 
under  the  robes,  "  that  I  ought  to  pull  out  of  it,  but 
there  is  a  German  treatment  he  wants  me  to  take. 
He  wants  me  to  go  to  Germany  with  him  this  spring. 
He  says  it  gets  ahold  of  slow,  stubborn  cases  and 
the  change  would  do  me  good.  He  is  like  you,  Billy, 
he  thinks  my  will  needs  to  be  built  up  and  a  change 
is  the  thing  to  give  me  a  new  incentive.  Oh,  I'd 
love  to  go,  if  only  Uncle  John  hadn't  such  a 
tremendous  drain  on  him.  You  know,  Billy  —  I  can 
tell  you  —  Uncle  John  is  not  a  rich  man.  He  is  tied 
up  with  all  this  land  and  what  with  his  ditch  and 
heavy  outlay  for  the  settlers  he  is  really  close  run 
for  cash.  If  I  could  only  make  the  money  myself, 
nursing." 

"In  the  meantime,"  I  said,  "let's  work  hard  on 
the  armament  —  keep  on  with  the  milk  and  eggs 
and  open  air  and  rest  —  only  you  never  rest,  Lizbeth 
—  and  maybe  by  spring  things  will  be  different." 

She  sighed,  then  smiled:  "Yes  —  by  spring." 

How  many  of  us  were  waiting  for  spring;  for  a 
time  in  the  future  when  things  would  be  different. 
As  I  look  back  on  it  that  winter  seems  to  me  a  time 
of  passive  waiting  for  every  one  but  John  Regan, 
who  was  steadily  busy  with  his  country's  problems. 


290  Happy  Valley 

He  was  away  all  through  February,  and  I  understood 
he  had  been  having  conferences  with  Mill.  He  was 
trying  to  do,  so  people  who  did  nothing  said,  an 
impossible  thing :  induce  a  rival  road  from  the  north 
to  obtain  franchises  and  build  into  our  empire.  He 
had  had  to  wait  a  year  for  these  conferences  as  he 
was  under  bail  not  to  leave  the  state,  and  the  Mill 
people  had  not  visited  the  Northwest  in  that  time. 

Early  in  March  a  great  excitement  prevailed  at 
the  Q  Ranch;  we  received  word  that  the  Mill  party 
was  actually  coming.  Lizbeth  busied  herself  with 
Mrs.  Todd's  help  getting  the  bedrooms  in  readiness, 
while  Ed  and  his  wife  began  a  great  roasting  and 
baking  in  the  cookhouse.  I  drove  the  car  to  Ossing 
to  bring  in  Mr.  Regan  and  his  guests. 

"  Everything  depends  on  this  visit/'  he  said  to  me. 
"Look  well  to  your  car  while  in  Ossing.  Have  it 
gone  over  at  the  garage.  Don't  run  any  risks." 

I  understood  his  meaning  perfectly  but  I  felt  that 
his  warning  was  unnecessary.  The  visit  of  these 
men  might  mean  a  railroad;  and  a  railroad  meant 
life  to  the  homesteaders.  I  was  too  intensely 
interested  in  the  outcome  to  feel  the  need  of  caution 
or  resistance;  the  thing  simply  could  not  happen 
again. 

Almost  the  first  man  I  met  in  the  hotel  lobby  was 
Bullpit.  Never  since  our  encounter  in  the  school 


Waiting  for  Spring  291 

house  had  he  directly  addressed  me  nor  had  I  him ; 
but  on  this  day  he  seemed  desirous  of  being  friendly. 
He  hung  around  and  told  me  the  details  of  his  busi 
ness.  He  was  in  Ossing  with  a  car  to  meet  prospect 
ive  homesteaders.  He  was  making  money,  taking 
the  first  gouge  out  of  the  hardly  earned  cash  which 
the  poor  devils  brought  in  to  get  them  a  home.  I 
knew  he  was  not  careful  where  he  located  them.  The 
quickest  and  easiest  way  was  Bullpit's.  All  too  often 
the  stranger  knew  nothing  of  soils  and  was  wholly 
in  Bullpit's  hands.  After  dropping  his  few  hundred 
dollars  into  a  piece  of  ground  that  required  special 
treatment,  he  would  leave  the  country  cursing  it. 
Bullpit  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  over  such  a 
departure  and  located  the  next  man  on  the  abandoned 
claim. 

I  succeeded  in  avoiding  further  meeting  with  him 
while  in  Ossing.  At  daylight  with  Mr.  Regan  and 
the  Mill  party  —  there  were  three  men  —  I  set  out 
for  Two  Forks.  It  was  a  delightful,  crisp,  nippy 
day  and  the  pungent  fragrance  of  pine  and  juniper 
as  we  drove  over  the  mountains  filled  the  nostrils 
and  penetrated  to  the  senses  even  of  these  city  dwell 
ers  rolled  in  great  coats  and  puffing  at  big  cigars. 

Always  before  I  had  seen  John  Regan  in  a 
paternal  role,  driving  and  pushing  and  pulling  and 
coaxing.  With  these  railroad  men  he  met  minds 


292  Happy  Valley 

that  met  his,  that  worked  big  and  constructively.  He 
was  the  gracious  host.  He  told  stories  of  early  days 
and  stories  of  the  present  day  that  made  one  sense 
the  great,  empty  country.  He  did  not  push  his  direct 
object,  the  bringing  in  of  a  railroad;  rather,  he 
endeavored  to  make  these  men  see  the  country  as 
he  saw  it,  brimming  with  wealth,  laden  with 
opportunity.  He  worked  to  break  down  their  pre 
conceived  idea  of  a  vast  desert  of  waste  land.  But 
they  had  come,  I  presently  decided,  more  in  a  spirit 
of  adventure  and  to  please  him  than  with  the  idea 
of  doing  business.  They  liked  John  Regan;  they 
enjoyed  his  company;  they  were  having  a  fine  dip 
into  cattle  land;  but  they  had  not  come  with  a 
serious  purpose.  It  was  an  immense  country  —  true 
enough  —  but  it  had  no  people.  There  was  no 
inducement  for  a  railroad.  Besides  these  men 
represented  a  road  that  had  no  holdings  in  Oregon. 
This  was  their  rival's  territory;  on  this  very  trip 
in  we  passed  Merriman's  surveying  crews  making 
surveys  that  meant  a  stiffer  hold  on  franchises. 

"What  do  you  want  with  a  road?"  one  of  them 
demanded  of  Regan.  "You've  got  your  life  and 
it's  a  bully  one.  Man,  I  wish  I'd  had  your  life!" 

They  liked  him;  they  were  won  out  of  coldness 
and  reticence;  they  were  having  a  good  time.  And 
I  thought,  after  all,  gifted  as  he  was  with  personality. 


Waiting  for  Spring  293 

with  that  which  made  men  love  him,  why  did  he 
grapple  with  the  great  bottled  up  empire,  dragging 
like  a  giant  at  its  dead  weight?  How  much  easier 
to  go  on  living  his  own  life;  he  was  nearing  fifty; 
the  open  range  would  last  out  his  days  should  he 
drop  the  settlers'  fight.  It  would  last  out  his  days 
and  he  could  live  like  some  baron  of  old  on  the  great 
Q  Ranch  with  cars  and  servants  at  his  disposal  and 
guests  such  as  these  who  would  be  glad  to  gather 
about  him.  Every  one  would  admire  him  in  the 
role ;  it  was  a  big  part  on  a  gigantic  stage ;  Americans 
loved  such  parts.  He  would  gain  the  friendship  of 
the  O.  C.  Company,  then  the  indictment  would  be 
dismissed,  and  his  life  would  be  one  of  peace.  What 
was  it  that  made  him  buckle  down  to  the  fight  of  the 
settlers,  the  fight  for  development  ?  It  was  something 
strong  and  selfless ;  the  quality  that  makes  all  really 
great  men  great,  I  suppose;  an  endowment  of 
monumental  will  power,  constructive  ability,  insight, 
vision,  but  with  it  all  utter  selflessness.  Had  his 
qualities  of  mind  been  present  with  selfishness  what 
a  man  he  might  have  been  in  Wall  Street.  How 
every  one  about  him  would  have  succumbed  sooner 
or  later  to  the  sheer  force  of  his  dominating 
personality. 

By  noon  the  three  men  were  calling  him  John  and 
all  but  holding  his  hands.    We  stopped  at  a  ranch- 


294  Happy  Valley 

house  for  lunch  and  at  another  that  evening  for 
dinner.  Afterwards  the  men  sat  about  an  open  fire 
and  continued  their  talk.  Mr.  Regan  called  me  in 
to  join  them.  It  was  a  rare  experience.  He  got 
down  to  serious  business.  He  pictured  the  home 
steaders  and  their  privations.  He  told  his  stories 
tersely  but  with  magical  effectiveness.  I  had  never 
heard  incidents  so  picturesquely  related  and  always 
with  that  little  humorous  philosophic  slant  on  life 
that  gave  them  universal  application  and  appeal. 
Never  once  did  I  hear  John  Regan  say  "  I  read,"  or 
"I  heard,"  or  "Some  one  was  telling  me"  —  every 
observation  was  ripped  raw  from  life. 

We  set  out  for  Two  Forks  again  the  following 
morning.  Several  times  one  or  another  of  the  men 
voiced  my  impression  of  the  day  before :  "  Regan, 
you're  a  fool;  why  do  you  want  a  railroad?  If  I 
had  an  empire  like  this  all  my  own  I'd  keep  it 
bottled."  They  now  called  it  Regan's  county. 
"  How  does  it  feel,"  they  would  ask,  "  to  travel  two 
days  in  a  sixty-horse-power  car  and  never  get  off 
your  own  land  ?  "  "  Anybody  over  here  ever  known 
to  differ  with  you,  Regan?"  He  was  a  big  man 
among  big  men.  Long  before  we  reached  Two  Forks 
his  eminence  was  established ;  all  three  were  looking 
to  Regan  as  the  genius  of  the  party. 

Bullpit  and  his  homesteaders  were  ahead  of  us; 


Waiting  for  Spring  295 

they  had  gone  straight  through  without  a  stop.  He 
came  swaggering  around  plainly  wanting  to  be 
introduced.  He  talked  in  a  loud  voice  within  hearing 
of  the  railroad  men  in  Van  Vader's  lobby,  and  he 
boasted  of  having  brought  in  more  settlers  than  any 
other  one  man.  Every  once  in  a  while  he  would 
break  into  uproarious  mirth  that  was  very  disquieting. 
At  last,  getting  no  attention  from  Mr.  Regan,  save 
a  brief  recognition  of  his  presence,  he  came  over 
and  button-holed  me.  He  wanted  me  to  meet  a 
couple  of  men  whom  he  thought  of  taking  down  to 
Happy  Valley  to  locate.  He  would  like  me  to  tell 
them  something  about  that  country. 

I  was  willing  to  talk  with  the  men.  I  gave  them 
an  idea  of  what  they  were  up  against;  of  the  need  of 
a  certain  amount  of  ready  cash.  Bullpit  quickly 
interrupted.  "  Let's  have  something,"  he  said,  lead 
ing  the  way  toward  the  barroom.  "Come  on, 
Brent." 

I  turned  away  abruptly ;  he  laughed.  "  Come  on 
in,  anyway,"  he  added  coaxingly,  "that  can't  hurt 
you." 

It  was  a  silly  childish  taunt ;  it  was  a  silly  childish 
thing  for  me  to  resent  it  —  and  follow  the  men  in. 
The  new  homesteaders  were  serious  minded,  intent 
on  finding  land  and  getting  on  to  it.  One  proudly 
confided  to  me  that  he  was  a  barber  with  five  chairs ; 


296  Happy  Valley 


he  had  sold  out  to  go  on  a  ranch.  "  And  as  good  a 
stand  as  a  man  ever  had,"  he  said,  "but  I  got  the 
land  fever."  The  other  was  a  small,  nervous 
nurseryman,  who  had  specialized  in  pansies.  The 
competition  was  keen  and  he  hadn't  the  capital  to 
meet  it.  He  had  sold  out  to  a  rival  company  and 
had  three  thousand  dollars  to  put  into  developing  a 
homestead.  We  were  talking  homesteading  when 
Bullpit  came  to  us  with  two  glasses  of  whisky, 
followed  by  the  bartender  with  two  more.  The 
bartender  set  them  down  on  a  small  table  which  he 
kicked  before  us. 

"  Here's  to  our  new  homesteaders,"  Bullpit  airily 
declaimed,  lifting  a  glass  and  holding  out  the  other 
to  me.  I  did  not  take  it.  "  Oh,  come,  Brent,  smell 
like  a  man,  anyway!"  he  said,  and  with  that  he 
tipped  the  glass  and  spilled  the  whiskey  on  to  my 
clothes.  I  sprang  up  and  struck  the  glass  out  of  his 
hand.  The  two  men  got  to  their  feet.  With  a  snort 
Bullpit  drew  hastily  back. 

"  Don't  go  getting  hot-headed  over  nothing,"  he 
said.  "Only  a  joke  —  just  a  little  joke.  Sit  down 
everybody.  I  apologize,  Brent.  A  man  can't  do 
more'n  apologize." 

Every  one  had  looked  to  our  corner  expecting 
some  real  excitement.  The  enmity  between  Bullpit 
and  me  was  well  known  in  saloon  circles;  there 


Waiting  for  Spring  297 

would  be  a  second  fight  —  or  gun  play.  I  was  see 
ing  red.  I  now  understood  the  design  back  of  Bull- 
pit's  show  of  friendliness.  He  had  meant  once  more 
to  get  me  drunk  —  it  was  his  method  of  revenge 
and  it  would  cripple  John  Regan.  It  might  make 
me  lose  out  with  John  Regan  altogether;  it  might 
put  him  in  the  big  car  as  driver  even  on  this  trip  — 
drivers  were  scarce  in  the  cattle  country  —  and  this 
in  turn  might  supply  him  with  information  con 
vertible  into  cash  with  the  ever-spying  Oceanic  Cat 
tle  Company. 

I  had  but  one  real  responsibility :  I  must  get  the 
party  of  railway  magnates  safely  to  the  Q  Ranch 
and  then  out  of  the  country.  After  that  —  Bullpit. 

I  turned  to  go  out  and  saw  Van  Vader.  He  had 
just  opened  the  door  from  the  lobby. 

"  Wire  for  you,  Brent,"  he  said,  without  interest. 
He  held  a  yellow  envelope  in  his  hand.  I  went 
quickly  to  receive  it.  This  was  the  message  from 
Ennis:  "  Grandfather  in  deep  trouble.  Come  at 


once." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  OLD  HOME  BACK  EAST 

ON  the  train  going  East  the  old  worrying  habit 
came  back  to  me.  What  had  happened  to 
grandfather?  Was  it  a  financial  matter?  If  so, 
what  could  I  do?  My  ranch  would  bring  little 
money  now,  and  it  was  all  I  had  in  the  world.  I 
had  no  earning  power  back  East.  The  most  ordinary 
clerk  who  had  been  back  of  a  desk  while  I  had  been 
ranching  would  command  a  far  better  salary. 

I  found  the  old  home  place  badly  run  down.  The 
lawn  was  covered  with  dead  winter  grass  which 
should  have  been  cut  in  the  autumn.  Weeds  showed 
between  the  bricks  of  the  old-fashioned  walk  which 
led  up  to  the  front  door.  Trees,  bare  of  foliage, 
rattled  skeleton  limbs  against  the  house.  They 
needed  trimming.  The  green  blinds  were  tightly 
closed;  the  house  itself  needed  repainting.  Every 
thing  looked  neglected. 

The  door  was  locked.  I  rang  the  bell.  There  was 
no  response.  I  listened  and  waited.  At  last  I  heard 
a  faint  stirring  above  the  porch  roof.  I  stepped 
back  on  to  the  walk  and  looked  up.  A  thin,  white 

298 


The  Old  Home  Back  East          299 

hand  lifted  the  window  blind,  and  large  frightened 
eyes  peered  cautiously  beneath. 

"Claire,  it  is  I  — Billy,"  I  called  to  her. 

She  dropped  the  blind  and  I  heard  her  step  as 
she  ran  down  the  stairs;  she  opened  the  door  —  a 
white- faced  ghost  of  a  girl  with  dark  shadows 
beneath  her  large  blue  eyes,  and  claw-like  hands  that 
clutched  at  an  old,  faded  cotton  kimono  which  clung 
about  her  like  a  wilted  thing.  It  was  early  morning. 

"Oh  Billy,"  she  cried,  mechanically  lifting  her 
face  to  mine  for  a  hurried  kiss,  "You're  just  in 
time.  We  couldn't  have  held  out  another  day  alone, 
Ennis  and  I." 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked,  pushing  my  way  into  the 
darkened  hall.  I  wanted  to  throw  open  every 
window  blind  and  let  in  a  rush  of  sunny  air.  "  What 
has  happened  to  Grandfather?"  Already  I  felt  the 
blackness  coming  over  me,  like  the  return  of  some 
dread  disease  of  which  one  had  thought  himself 
freed. 

"We  don't  know;  something  terrible  —  we're 
afraid  it's  his  mind.  He  —  he  doesn't  know  either 
of  us."  She  began  to  cry. 

"My  God,  Claire,  haven't  you  had  a  doctor?" 

"We  — we  didn't  want  it  to  get  out.  Oh,  Billy, 
if  any  one  should  know !  We  thought  with  the  three 
of  us  we  could  keep  it  secret." 


300  Happy  Valley 

I  gave  Claire  one  look  as  she  stood  there  shaking 
with  sobs,  weak,  futile,  possessed  by  a  solitary 
passion,  the  passion  for  appearances;  and  I  strode 
past  her  up  the  stairs  to  my  grandfather's  room.  I 
could  feel  my  lips  —  my  whole  being — stiffening 
in  a  tension  as  in  the  old  days  —  but  I  wanted  to 
be  kind  to  my  sisters.  I  pushed  open  the  door  and 
faced  Ennis :  Ennis,  older  than  she  had  any  right 
to  be,  sharper  featured,  thinner,  but  as  obstinate  as 
ever.  She  kissed  me  absently,  her  eyes  roving.  Was 
I  well?  Did  I  have  a  good  journey?  I  pushed 
past  her  to  the  bed  where  lay  grandfather.  His 
great  frame  was  outlined  under  the  coverlet,  his 
massive  head  lay  quiet  on  the  pillow,  but  his  hands 
moved  ceaselessly,  picking  at  the  sheet's  hem.  I  bent 
over  him. 

"Grandfather,"  I  said.  He  lifted  his  eyes,  a 
momentary  light  swept  his  face.  I  knelt  beside  him, 
choking.  Always  my  love  for  him  had  been  two- 
thirds  admiration.  He  was  so  strong,  so  capable, 
so  everything  that  the  rest  of  my  family  were  not. 
Again  I  called  to  him:  "Grandfather!" 

He  turned  perplexedly  to  Ennis:  "This  is 
someone  I  —  like,"  he  said  in  a  bewildered  wandering 
voice.  The  puzzled  look  passed  and  he  gave  his 
attention  to  the  sheet  hem. 

T  buried  my  face  in  the  bed  clothes.     This,  my 


The  Old  Home  Back  East          301 

grandfather  —  this,  my  home  coming!  In  the  rare 
dream  that  had  come  to  me  —  the  dream  of  some 
day  going  back  —  it  had  all  been  so  different.  I 
rose  and  turned  to  Ennis. 

"You  must  send  for  a  physician  at  once."  She 
consented,  dully. 

There  was  little  to  be  done.  It  was  a  break-down 
—  so  the  physician  told  me  —  of  brain  tissue,  and 
the  end  would  come  when  the  rest  of  his  splendid 
body  should  respond  to  the  final  decay  of  his  brain. 
Grandfather  was  not  old  —  seventy-five  —  but  he 
had  had  financial  worries  extending  over  a  decade 
and  culminating  in  the  loss  of  his  fortune.  Early 
alcoholism  —  so  I  gathered  from  my  talk  with  the 
physician,  a  man  of  brisk  manner  and  honest  in  his 
analysis  —  alcoholism  had  weakened  the  tissue  and 
left  it  unequal  to  the  strain.  An  easier  mind  toward 
the  end  of  his  life  might  have  saved  him  this 
humiliating  withdrawal.  Nothing  could  now  be 
done.  It  might  be  a  matter  of  a  few  weeks,  it 
might  be  years.  He  had  a  wonderful  constitution. 

Each  morning  when  I  stopped  by  his  bedside  a 
light  would  sweep  over  his  face;  he  seemed  glad 
of  my  presence  but  he  could  not  place  me.  Once 
he  said  with  a  suggestion  of  his  earlier  manner, 
"  I  had  a  fine  boy  —  a  fine  boy,  sir.  His  name  was 
Willie.  Willie  would  be  here,  sir,  but  he  is  detained 


302  Happy  Valley 


elsewhere."  There  was  tremendous  dignity  in  his 
apology.  It  was  harder  to  bear  than  his  periods  of 
weeping  and  weakness. 

He  rarely  talked,  remaining  silent  for  hours. 
Some  days  he  would  dress  and  wander  about  the 
house,  restlessly,  silently;  again  he  would  lie  abed 
all  day  picking  endlessly  at  the  sheet's  hem.  I 
gathered  from  Ennis's  account  that  the  break  had 
been  coming  on  for  over  a  year,  though  she  had 
not  recognized  it  as  such.  His  perpetual  gloom, 
his  long  periods  of  silence  and  his  desire  to  be  alone 
told  me  this.  For  a  year  he  had  gone  to  his  room, 
nightly,  immediately  after  dinner  —  having  eaten 
scarcely  a  mouthful  —  and  had  sat  staring  vacantly 
at  his  hands,  until  Ennis  would  come  and  get  him 
to  bed.  This  was  wholly  unlike  him — he  had  been 
a  most  social  man,  a  great  talker,  devoted  to  his 
family  but  loving  his  friends.  What  Ennis  had 
attributed  to  "worry"  had  been  the  beginning  of 
brain-decay;  only  when  he  ceased  to  know  her  did 
she  realize  the  gravity  of  his  condition.  The  women 
of  our  family  had  spent  so  much  time  being  "blue" 
as  they  called  it,  that  she  did  not  recognize  the  thing 
as  a  disease. 

I  went  into  his  business  affairs  and  found  there 
was  little  left  save  the  home  place  and  this  was 
heavily  mortgaged.  It  was  trying  to  save  this  last 


The  Old  Home  Back  East         303 

valuable  possession  that  had  broken  him  down.  Our 
home  covered  a  block,  but  that  part  of  the  city  had 
been  taken  by  business,  and  as  residence  property  it 
had  lost  value.  However,  it  had  acquired  a  business 
valuation.  Real  estate  was  not  moving  and  the 
prospect  of  a  sale  was  poor.  The  mortgage  was 
long  overdue  and  the  interest  unpaid.  Grandfather's 
life  was  insured  and  this  would  be  all  my  sisters 
would  have. 

As  I  divided  my  time  between  caring  for  him  and 
attempting  to  straighten  out!  his  affairs,  I  grew 
accustomed  to  the  idea  of  his  going  out — already 
it  seemed  that  he  had  gone,  so  little  was  there  left 
but  the  majestic  frame  and  this  seemed  shrinking 
before  my  eyes  —  and  I  began  to  plan  for  Ennis 
and  Claire.  When  the  end  should  come,  they  must 
close  the  memory-haunted  house  with  its  massive 
oak  furniture  and  its  glittering  family  silver  —  I 
had  forgotten  what  a  heaviness  of  equipment 
weighted  the  place  down  —  and  they  must  come  to 
my  ranch  out  in  the  last  West.  They  must  come  to 
youth  and  sunshine  and  light  and  open  air,  where 
everything  was  at  its  beginning,  where  everyone 
worked  openly  at  his  problem.  They  must  have 
saddle  horses,  they  must  make  gardens  —  I  would 
build  them  a  house  —  and  they  must  forget  that  life 
which  they  had  known,  which  had  been  too  much 


304  Happy  Valley 

dominated  by  what-will-people-think,  and  replace  it 
with  constructive  activity. 

The  very  city  got  on  my  nerves.  The  crowded 
subways,  the  herded  men  and  women,  the  colorless 
faces,  the  artificial  life  —  how  repellant  it  all  was, 
how  out  of  harmony  with  the  promise  of  joyous 
living  that  comes  in  childhood!  And  yet  I  could 
not  say  —  even  in  my  mind  —  "Go  West!"  to  these 
hordes.  There  were  the  broad,  free  acres  which 
cried  loudly  for  the  healthy  labor  of  these  dwindling 
hands,  and  the  reward  was  more  than  generous; 
but  these  people  —  even  if  they  so  minded  —  could 
not  be  turned  back  to  the  soil.  Without  capital  to 
carry  them  a  year  or  so  the  struggle  would  be  futile. 
Aside  from  the  matter  of  railroads,  there  was  a  big 
gap  in  our  government's  plan  to  settle  the  West. 
The  poor  man,  the  man  aching  for  his  chance  in  the 
world,  the  man  who  would  be  most  benefited  by  free 
acres,  was  hopelessly  shut  off  from  this  opportunity ; 
it  belonged  in  the  last  analysis  to  the  rich  man,  him 
only. 

And  again,  how  little  was  the  great  empty  West 
understood  in  the  East;  how  little  had  my  grand 
father  known  of  what  he  was  sending  me  into. 

As  day  after  day  I  became  a  part  of  the  crowding, 
milling  herd  that  scrambled  for  foot  room  in  the 
subway,  I  thought  more  about  life  in  general  than 


The  Old  Home  Back  East         305 

I  had  ever  done  before.  What  was  it  all  about? 
What  was  it  for  ?  What  was  important  ?  and  back 
came  the  answer:  Three  wholesome  meals  daily 
for  every  human  being ;  open  space  to  live  in ;  clean 
air  to  breathe;  enough  work  to  appreciate  rest; 
enough  leisure  to  appreciate  work;  some  of  the 
luxuries ;  and  the  helping  hand  such  as  our  old  man 
gave ;  this  for  all  men  and  women  without  fear. 

Fear  had  been  the  great  bugaboo  of  our  lives; 
fear  and  worry  and  inaction.  Was  fear  the  universal 
bugaboo  —  fear  of  the  future  ?  Fear  of  the  untried  ? 
Did  not  fear  breed  the  rest — worry  and  inaction? 

Strangely,  I  met  few  of  our  old  friends,  so 
completely  had  my  sisters  withdrawn  into  their 
four  square  walls.  They  had  dropped  out  of  things 
and  things  had  gone  on  without  them.  It  was  as 
they  wished;  if  they  could  not  keep  up  appearances 
they  preferred  to  be  forgotten. 

One  evening  when  we  were  sitting  by  the  open 
fire  —  the  same  fireplace  in  which  had  been  reflected 
all  our  joys  and  sorrows  since  infancy  —  I  told  the 
girls  of  the  condition  in  which  I  had  found  grand 
father's  affairs.  "There  is  very  little  money,"  I 
said.  "  We  will  soon  have  to  raise  more  for  running 
expenses." 

They  both  drew  long  faces  and  sighed  deeply. 
Ennis  suggested  that  I  sell  my  ranch.  "  Sell  your 


306  Happy  Valley 

ranch,  Billy,  and  let's  center  everything  in  saving 
the  home,"  she  went  on,  "  the  home  where  we  were 
all  born,  where  father  and  mother  died." 

Something  gripped  at  my  heart.  "  It  would  not 
sell."  I  answered  her  abruptly.  The  dreary  old 
home  with  its  tottering  foundations,  its  mouldy 
walls,  its  massive  furniture  —  I  could  more  easily 
have  set  fire  to  it;  and  yet  it  had  a  certain  hold  on 
my  affections  —  but  a  melancholy  hold. 

"  Then  what's  the  ranch  worth  ?  "  Ennis  demanded, 
impatiently.  "What  is  all  your  work  out  there 
worth,  Billy?"  she  moved  nearer  me.  "You  must 
stay  at  home  now  and  take  up  business  and  keep  up 
the  old  home;  it's  your  place." 

The  bare  suggestion  made  me  suffocate.  "It 
isn't  possible,"  I  said. 

"Why?  You  made  money  out  West,  you  could 
make  more  here.  Of  course  you  must  take  up 
your  life  here  again,  Billy,  and  live  —  like  a  gentle 
man." 

I  sat  a  long  time  looking  into  the  flickering  fire. 
I  could  not  make  her  understand  what  my  ranch 
meant  to  me.  My  letters  had  evidently  conveyed 
nothing.  The  mere  fact  of  my  hair  having  gone 
white  was  a  calamity  that  offset  any  good  which  I 
may  have  gained  from  the  West.  She  remembered 
that  our  mother's  hair  had  turned  when  she  was 


The  Old  Home  Back  East 


307 


young  —  perhaps  it  was  a  family  trait  —  but  still  it 
depressed  her  and  added  to  her  complete  assurance 
that  the  ranch  was  not  the  thing  for  me. 

As  I  sat  thinking  over  the  differences  —  the  things 
I  could  not  make  my  sisters  understand  —  a  softness 
stole  over  me.  Poor 
girls,  neither  would 
ever  know  the  joy 
in  mere  living  that 
I  had  gained  from 
my  tussle  with  ele 
mental  things.  In 
the  firelight  came 
pictures  —  my 
wheat  fields  that 
were  to  be,  my 
butte,  nosing  grace- 
fully  down  like 
some  great  animal, 
prone  and  at  rest, 

the  coyotes  silhou- 

,    J  J        Susie 

etted     against    the 

clear  night  sky  as  I  had  so  often  watched  them  from 
Mother  Lattig's  when  they  came  nightly  to  the  top 
of  my  butte  to  howl,  squatted  on  their  haunches  the 
better  to  perform  —  sturdy  little  Tenttown — then 
came  a  brave  young  face  and  eyes  that  looked 


308  Happy  Valley 

levelly  into  mine  —  eyes  that  twinkled  at  times  — 
like  stars. 

"  There  is  Susie,"  I  almost  whispered  the  name  — 
like  some  sacred  word.  Something — the  firelight 
—  drew  my  long  unrealized  dream  into  words  I  had 
not  before  spoken  even  to  myself.  "A  wonderful 
little  girl,  brave,  fearless,  loyal,  the  embodied  spirit 
of  the  last  West,  the  spirit  of  the  west  wind  that 
some  way  has  character  in  it.  Some  day  —  I  will 
have  her  with  me  always."  Somehow,  some  way, 
the  impossible  was  to  be.  I  was  to  have  Susie  —  it 
was  all  in  the  firelight. 

"Billy!"  It  was  a  shriek  from  Ennis.  "You 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  on  top  of  everything  else 
you  are  to  marry  that  rough,  cowpunching  ranch 
girl?"  Her  face  was  tragic. 

"What  will  every  one  say,"  moaned  Claire. 

The  low  fire  fell  into  ashes.  I  sat  up  and  looked 
at  my  two  anaemic,  attenuated  sisters. 

"Why  not  Lizbeth?"  Ennis  went  on  sharply,  her 
eyes  flashing,  her  flat,  thin  nostrils  quivering.  "  Liz 
beth  —  from  what  you  have  written  me  —  seems  at 
least  possible.  Why  not  Lizbeth  ?  " 

I  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  window.  Dead  tree 
branches  were  driven  by  gusts  of  rain  monotonously 
against  the  pane.  The  fire  had  flickered  out  and 


The  Old  Home  Back  East          309 

Ennis'  economy  would  not  let  her  put  on  more 
wood.  The  room  was  gloomy;  she  was  saving  on 
lights.  There  did  not  occur  to  me  one  thing  in  all 
the  dead  past  connected  with  that  house  to  which 
it  would  be  good  to  cling.  Nothing  but  melancholy 
memories  better  a  thousand  times  forgotten. 

Further  discussion  was  out  of  the  question.  'A 
reticence  grew  up  between  my  sisters  and  myself. 
We  went  through  the  duties  each  day,  I  dividing  the 
time  between  my  grandfather's  office  and  my  care 
of  him,  the  girls  attending  to  the  housework,  going 
about  with  compressed  lips  and  worried  faces, 
speaking  in  the  low  tones  of  a  death  chamber.  The 
gloom  never  for  a  moment  lifted.  It  was  strange 
how  alike  the  girls  had  grown.  Claire  would  never 
have  the  strength  of  will,  the  obstinacy,  of  Ennis; 
she  was  hysterical,  while  Ennis  was  inclined  to  keep 
a  stiff  upper  lip,  to  make  herself  go  through  with 
things.  But  in  viewpoint  they  were  one. 

Grandfather's  condition  did  not  change.  My 
presence  no  longer  brought  comfort  even  to  my 
sisters.  There  was  that  something  always  between 
us.  We  lived  on  a  strain.  They  had  apparently 
made  up  their  minds  to  remain  "  sweet,"  they  would 
have  no  more  scenes,  but  they  could  not  forgive  my 
descent  in  life.  I  had  appeared  well,  prosperous, 
buoyant.  I  could  take  my  place  again  in  the  world 


310  Happy  Valley 

and  reinstate  my  family  —  and  I  would  not.  I 
lacked  family  pride.  Nothing  more  was  to  be  said. 

But  it  was  the  coming  necessity  of  actual  cash  to 
run  the  house  that  at  last  drove  me  back  to  the  West. 
I  could  return  to  Two  Forks  and  earn  one  hundred 
dollars  a  month  driving  John  Regan's  car,  and  this 
I  could  send  home  for  household  expenses.  I 
refrained  from  putting  further  suffering  on  the  girls 
by  telling  them  how  I  was  to  earn  this  money,  a 
thing  they  never  could  have  faced  —  and  lived. 

Before  leaving  I  effected  an  arrangement  by  which 
my  sisters  would  be  left  in  possession  of  the  old 
home  until  my  grandfather's  death.  I  closed  up  his 
affairs  as  nearly  as  possible.  The  day  I  left  I  spent 
the  afternoon  by  his  side  in  a  last  unavailing  attempt 
to  make  him  know  me. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MOTHER  INN 

AT  Two  Forks  a  telegram  —  three  days  old  — 
informed  me  that  Grandfather  had  passed  out 
of  life  the  night  I  left.  There  was  no  reason  for 
my  returning.  The  girls  did  not  need  me  —  the 
insurance  money  would  take  care  of  them  —  and  the 
funeral  was  over. 

I  learned  from  Van  Vader  that  Tom  Lattig  was 
now  driving  John  Regan's  car.  Bullpit,  it  seemed, 
had  left  the  country,  the  activities  of  certain  de 
frauded  homesteaders  having  made  life  too  uncer 
tain  in  these  parts  for  further  dalliance.  I  decided 
to  go  at  once  to  my  ranch. 

Mother  Lattig  was  all  tears  and  voluble  sympathy 
over  my  bereavement,  and  happiness  over  seeing  me 
again.  She  was  very  lonesome  with  Tom  away,  but 
Tom  needed  the  money,  and  of  course  there  were 
more  travelers  now;  almost  daily  she  had  guests 
for  dinner.  She  was  making  money. 

I  wanted  something  to  do,  something  for  my 
hands,  and  quickly.  I  wanted  to  get  to  work,  to  get 
back  again  into  the  midst  of  things  physical  and 

311 


312  Happy  Valley 

constructive.  The  heavy  weight  of  blackness  which 
had  settled  down  over  my  spirit  in  the  East  had  not 
lifted.  I  must  work  out  of  it,  work  back  into  the 
wholesomeness  of  the  country.  Mother  Lattig  was 
declaiming  on  the  number  of  meals  she  had  served 
since  I  went  away.  She  kept  the  money  in  a  piece 
of  lead  pipe  —  something  Tom  had  picked  up 
somewhere  —  which  she  drove  "down  into  de 
ranch."  She  now  brought  it  in  for  me  to  see  —  dug 
fresh  from  the  earth.  "  No  white-livered  pig  will 
steal  dat  —  you  tink  ?  " 

I  congratulated  her  on  her  bank  and  suggested 
that  she  have  a  sign,  that  we  name  the  place 
"  Mother  Inn."  She  slapped  me  on  the  shoulders 
and  squeezed  my  arm  and  laughed  about  it,  then 
stopped  short  in  her  affectionate  outburst  with,  "  Dat 
fine  plan ;  you  make  heem  sign ;  I  put  heem  up ;  make 
heem  fine  —  like  you  make  for  dat  poor  young  man 
we  put  down  under  de  ranch  last  winter." 

I  went  to  the  lumber  pile  and  selected  a  smooth 
board,  sawed  off  a  three- foot  length,  and  bringing 
it  back  to  the  doorway,  proceeded  to  carve  out  the 
letters,  Mother  Lattig  watching  and  exclaiming  and 
approving  at  every  stroke  of  the  knife.  It  was 
something  to  do  while  I  tried  to  think  out  what  I 
should  do  next.  I  still  had  some  money,  but  I 
couldn't  decide  just  where  to  begin,  what  to  do  first. 


Mother  Inn  313 


In  the  blackness  that  gripped  me  nothing  moved. 
I  did  not  want  to  see  anyone  until  this  mood  should 
pass.  I  had  not  even  stopped  at  Tenttown  on  my 
way  in.  I  could  see  no  one  yet. 

We  stained  the  board  brown  and  painted  the  let 
ters  white  and  Mother  Lattig  was  enraptured.  The 
work  consumed  the  whole  evening.  In  spite  of 
Mother  Lattig's  protests  I  went  to  my  own  ranch  to 
sleep.  I  was  awakened  the  next  morning  by  the 
meadow  larks  singing  their  rapturous  insistence  on 
spring.  Never,  it  seemed  to  me,  had  they  sung  so 
gloriously,  spilled  such  a  volume  of  liquid  notes  on 
the  air;  and  a  bounding  sensation  of  spring  was  all 
through  me.  My  cabin  door,  wide  open,  let  in  a 
flood  of  sunlight  on  clean-smelling  sage-scented  air. 
Life,  golden  life,  flooded  my  whole  being. 

I  got  into  my  clothes  whistling.  I  went  outside 
and  looked  about  as  on  a  new  world.  Life  was  full 
of  joy  again.  The  air  —  even  in  May  —  was  bracing. 
I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  butte  and  gazed  long  over 
the  valley  —  it  was  a  cheering  picture  —  growth, 
life,  new  beginnings.  I  began  to  dream.  I  should 
build  a  look-out  tower  at  once,  and  in  it  would  be  a 
huge  fireplace.  Ennis  would  send  my  big  leather 
chair,  books,  pictures,  and  pennants  from  my  old 
den  —  she  had  spoken  of  this  when  I  left  —  and  I 
would  stay  in  this  forever-land  forever. 


314  Happy  Valley 


I  went  over  to  Mother  Lattig's,  all  my  being 
singing  in  tune  with  the  rhythmic  singing  earth.  I 
seized  her  round  her  ample  waist  and  waltzed  her 
about  the  cabin  while  she  waved  her  griddle-cake 
turner,  cracking  my  head  whenever  she  could 
manage  it — and  always  there  would  be  Mother 
Lattig. 

"  Foolishness  on  you,  foolishness  on  you  !  Any 
one  might  tink  you  vas  de  one ! "  she  cried  at  last. 

"I  am,  Mother  Lattig — what  one?" 

We  stopped  waltzing;  she  stood  off  puffing  and 
blowing,  trying  desperately  to  get  words. 

"Him  —  Tom  —  engage  to  Susie;  you  too  much 
troubled  last  night  for  silly  gossip;  bimeby  — 
Whooppee ! "  she  made  a  great  cradle  swinging  of 
her  big  arms,  "much  babee  play  down  on  to  de 
ranch.  Oh,  mine  gootness,  dey  burn!"  And  she 
turned  excitedly  to  the  stove  where  sourdough  hot 
cakes  were  sending  up  a  perilous  smoke. 

Tom — engaged  to  Susie!  For  no  reason  what 
ever —  there  could  be  no  reason  —  the  light  died  out 
of  the  sunshine,  the  tower  dream  crumbled  to  ashes. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

COYOTE    BUTTE   RANCH 

I  SENT  to  Two  Forks  by  a  passing  homesteader 
for  supplies.  I  meant  to  establish  real  bachelor 
quarters  and  work  on  my  ranch.  Mother  Lattig, 
between  ejaculations  of  violent  protest,  insisted  on 
initiating  me  into  the  mysteries  of  sourdough,  and 
presenting  me  with  the  rattiest  of  Hungry's  pups. 

Hungry  had  belonged  to  a  traveler  going  south 
in  search  of  land;  with  rare  prescience  she  had 
remained  with  Mother  Lattig.  She  was  a  mixture 
of  bull  and  collie,  a  fine  watchdog  devoted  to  the 
Lattig  premises.  I  don't  know  what  her  pups  were, 
but  they  were  dear  to  Mother  Lattig  who  had  lost 
her  dog  "  Deck  "  and  had  not  ceased  bewailing  her 
loss  until  the  arrival  of  Hungry's  litter.  I  tried  to 
be  appreciative  of  troublesome  little  Tyke  and  not 
to  care  when  he  chewed  up  my  only  decent  hat,  an 
imported  English  cloth,  the  like  of  which  I  would  not 
soon  see  again.  In  time  I  came  to  be  really  fond 
of  him.  No  man  can  be  altogether  desolate  so  long 
as  a  dog  loves  him. 


316  Happy  Valley 

All  summer  I  worked  like  a  foreigner.  I  fenced 
one  hundred  acres  and  put  it  in  barley.  I  spent 
much  time  on  my  desert  claim  and  managed  to 
finish  digging  the  well.  The  sagebrush  there  was  as 
large  and  husky  as  young  juniper  trees;  it  made 
excellent  wood,  which  I  hauled  to  my  homestead 
and  to  mother  Lattig's.  I  wore  myself  out  so 
completely  each  day  that  by  night  I  had  hardly 
sufficient  energy  to  cook  a  snack  and  respond  to 
Tyke's  affectionate  attentions.  I  desired  only 
numbness,  and  to  be  let  alone.  Every  one  was  busy 
and  little  visiting  was  done.  The  long,  hard  winter 
on  a  potato  and  bean  diet  had  made  every  home 
steader  alive  to  but  one  necessity,  that  of  a  good 
big  root  crop  against  another  winter's  needs.  A 
few  had  cows,  and  their  winter  feed  was  also  a 
problem. 

Occasionally  I  talked  with  travelers  who  stopped 
at  Mother  Lattig's.  I  heard  frequent  criticisms  of 
John  Regan.  He  was  the  only  man  in  the  whole 
country  who  was  trying  to  put  through  a  definite 
plan  for  a  railroad,  and  naturally  every  move  he 
made  was  open  to  discussion.  Had  he  only  done 
this  or  that,  why,  a  railroad  would  have  come  in 
long  ago.  Other  powerful  cattlemen  did  not  want 
a  railroad.  They  were  of  the  O.  C.  persuasion. 
Railroads  brought  competition.  Who  wanted  more 


Coyote  Butte  Ranch 317 

people  in  the  country  ?  Let  the  country  alone.  What 
did  Regan  want  to  dig  a  canal  for,  anyway  ?  Served 
him  damned  right,  getting  indicted.  Had  no  business 
interfering  with  Nature.  Nature  made  the  tule 
swamp  and  she  likely  knew  what  she  was  about. 

But  the  homesteaders  were  a  solid  front  for  John 
Regan.  "  He  does  his  part  all  right,  Uncle  John," 
our  old  man  would  say.  He  had  his  doubts  at  times 
about  God  and  Uncle  Sam,  but  he  never  doubted 
John  Regan.  They  all  knew  where  they  could  get 
grain  or  hay  on  time  or  an  extra  team  when  a  horse 
went  lame  or  help  in  sickness  or  disaster.  His  case 
had  again  been  postponed. 

And  so  the  summer  passed  in  hard  work  by  day 
and  brute  sleep  by  night;  the  fall  I  spent  plowing 
for  the  winter  fallow. 

One  afternoon  in  February  Tom  Lattig  drove  up 
to  my  door  with  John  Regan.  "  Well,  well,  Billy," 
the  big  cattleman  said,  "but  you've  got  a  pretty 
place  here."  Our  hands  met  and  his  clasp  was  firm 
and  strong  and  hearty.  "  A  mighty  pretty  place." 

"  It  will  do,"  I  said,  conscious  of  pride  in  it  in 
spite  of  everything.  I  shook  hands  with  Tom. 

"  And  you're  looking  fit,  Billy ;  a  better  man  than 
before  you  fell  in  the  well.  No  wells  on  your  place." 
He  laughed  as  he  glanced  at  my  spring.  Then, 
"I'm  just  getting  home;  making  the  rounds  of  the 


318  Happy  Valley 


ranches,  and  I  wanted  to  see  you,  Billy,  that's  all; 
just  wanted  to  see  you." 

"You've  been  away?"  He  had  refused  to  come 
into  the  shack. 

He  laughed.  "  You're  a  real  settler  —  don't  know 
the  news  off  your  own  ranch.  Billy,  I've  been  work 
ing  with  the  legislature;  working  night  and  day; 
it's  the  hardest  thing  to  make  them  see  it,  but  we'll 
get  it." 

"Get  what?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  Billy,  I  didn't  get  much  encourage 
ment  from  Mill.  It'll  be  expensive  getting  a  road 
through  Roaring  Canyon  —  a  matter  of  millions,  and 
Merriman  has  got  it  tied  up  —  it'd  be  a  fight  such 
as  a  railroad  never  went  up  against  before  —  and  I 
can't  so  much  blame  Mill;  but  just  the  same,  Billy, 
we've  got  to  have  relief  —  and  quick.  I've  been 
working  the  legislature  up  to  the  point  of  letting  the 
people  vote  on  a  bonding  act  so  the  state  can  build 
her  own  railroads.  It's  taken  all  the  power  I  could 
muster  to  force  the  privilege  through  —  the  privilege 
of  allowing  the  people  to  vote  on  such  a  measure. 
It  will  be  a  state-owned  railroad.  It's  to  be  put  up 
to  the  people  and  we  will  have  a  year  to  educate 
them  on  it.  The  trouble  is,  all  the  land  is  over  here 
in  our  part  of  the  state  and  all  the  people  are  wadded 
up  in  cities  over  on  the  coast.  We've  got  to  get 


Coyote  Butte  Ranch  319 

those  city  people  to  vote  for  our  relief.  Of  course 
it  is  their  relief  in  the  biggest  sort  of  a  way,  but 
they  won't  see  it  that  way  until  it's  pointed  out. 
Here  they've  been  working  all  these  years  to  build 
up  machinery  to  do  business,  to  build  cities  and 
develop  waterways  for  hauling,  and  they've  never 
stopped  to  think  that  there  will  be  nothing  to  haul 
unless  the  interior  country  is  opened  up.  What  is 
the  good  of  a  port  with  nothing  to  ship  out?  It 
isn't  what  you  ship  in,  Billy,  that  makes  a  country, 
but  what  you  ship  out. 

"Now,  our  work  is  to  make  those  people  in  the 
coast  cities  who  are  grasping  for  more  and  bigger 
business  see  that  our  relief  is  their  relief,  that  they 
must  vote  bonds  to  open  up  our  country  for  their 
own  sakes.  They  hold  fairs  and  festivals  and  have 
parades  and  advertise  big  for  the  country  business, 
not  realizing  there  isn't  any  country  business  to 
speak  of.  If  they  would  put  a  railroad  in  here  and 
get  ten  thousand  ranchers  raising  wheat  and  alfalfa 
and  shipping  it  out  to  their  markets  —  why,  the 
money  would  flow  in  to  them.  If  we  could  head 
a  big  delegation  of  business  men  over  into  this  coun 
try  so  they  could  see  the  homesteaders'  tents  and 
little  patches  of  clearing  that  mean  root  crops  for 
bare  existence  for  next  winter,  they  wouldn't  bellow 
so  big  for  the  surplus ;  they  would  see  there  wasn't 


320  Happy  Valley 

going  to  be  any  surplus.  We  can't  get  them  over 
here  in  sufficiently  large  numbers,  Billy,  but  we  can 
take  the  story  to  them  and  take  it  strong." 

While  he  talked  a  plan  shaped  itself  in  my  head. 
I  would  go  with  him  if  he  would  accept  me.  I  had 
been  an  easy  debater  at  college  —  they  had  prophe 
sied  great  things  for  me  in  those  days  —  and  I  would 
go  into  this  thing  with  my  whole  being.  When  he 
finished  I  said:  "Mr.  Regan,  could  I  be  useful? 
Will  you  trust  me  in  town  now?" 

His  hand  went  out  to  my  shoulder  and  he  slapped 
it  heartily,  at  the  same  time  chuckling  his  hearty  lit 
tle  chuckle :  "  Trust  you,  boy  ?  To  the  world's  end. 
Come  along.  I've  brought  the  Book- farmer  back 
and  he  will  finish  your  plowing." 

On  the  way  to  the  Q  Ranch  he  outlined  his  plan 
of  campaign.  We  were  to  speak  steadily  in  all  the 
larger  towns  and  cities.  He  wanted  me  to  tell  the 
story  of  the  homesteader,  his  problems  and  his  cour 
age  in  meeting  them.  He  wanted  the  public  to  real 
ize  what  it  meant  to  pioneer  at  the  present  time.  He 
wanted  the  public  to  get  in  sympathy  with  the  man 
of  small  means  who  was  trying  to  make  a  home  for 
himself  in  the  country.  Already  a  thrilling  speech 
was  forming  itself  in  my  mind  enlivened  with  stories 
—  Mother  Lattig  and  her  garden,  the  young  man  we 
buried  "  down  under  de  ranch,"  the  Dutchman  who 


Coyote  Butte  Ranch 321 

nearly  lost  his  reason  over  his  disasters  and  hard 
ships  and  his  courageous  wife  who  built  the  road 
over  Wind  Mountain,  the  Dane's  starved  wife  when 
the  frost  caught  her  vegetables,  our  old  man's  lost 
leg.  I  was  thinking  it  all  out,  thrilling  to  it. 

"You  see,  it  will  pretty  nearly  depend  on  you, 
Billy,"  he  said  in  his  quietly  dominating  way.  "  I've 
still  got  that  trial  ahead  of  me."  Again  it  had  been 
postponed. 

We  stopped  by  the  dredge.  It  was  sunk  three- 
fourths  in  mud  and  slime.  He  made  no  comment 
and  we  drove  on,  but  his  face  changed  to  an  expres 
sion  of  large-hearted  anger.  "It  will  just  about 
depend  on  you,  Billy,  to  get  the  bonding  act  through. 
There's  not  many  wanting  it — they'll  think  of  the 
little  extra  tax  it  will  add.  There's  nobody  hot  on 
the  trail  over  here  that  I  can  use  but  you.  You  had 
a  fine  family  back  of  you,  Billy.  It's  grand  old 
blood;  you'll  be  enlisting  it  in  as  great  a  cause  as 
ever  fell  to  one  of  them." 

How  did  he  do  it,  so  easily,  so  unconsciously? 
Or  was  he  a  great  conscious  artist  ?  It  is  hard  to  say. 

"  Lizbeth'll  be  right  glad  to  see  you  again,  Billy ; 
Lizbeth's  pulled  through  the  winter  fine  so  far. 
She's  going  away  —  Lizbeth." 

Did  he  know?  He  might  —  and  then  again  he 
might  not. 


322  Happy  Valley 

"  Lizbeth's  going  to  Germany  with  Dr.  Monk  and 
his  wife.  It  will  be  a  nice  trip  for  Lizbeth." 

"  It  will  be  just  the  thing  for  her,"  I  agreed. 

As  we  drove  in  at  the  Q  Ranch  I  had  a  happy  get- 
ting-back-home  feeling.  We  met  old  Sody  in  a  blue 
jumper  shirt  and  much  shrunken  overalls,  peering 
through  near-sighted  eyes  as  he  made  his  way  rap 
idly  with  short  steps  to  the  cookhouse,  a  duck  feebly 
squawking  under  his  arm.  He  only  nodded,  com 
pletely  absorbed  in  his  latest  leppy's  difficulties.  The 
leppy  baby  was  in  a  wonderful  perambulator,  crow 
ing  his  lungs  out  in  the  sun  on  the  wide  porch,  his 
startled-eyed  mother  in  awe  of  his  greater  forceful- 
ness  and  yielding  to  his  demands.  The  gong  sounded 
for  dinner  as  we  stopped  before  the  ranchhouse, 
bringing  Lizbeth  on  to  the  porch.  She  came  running 
to  greet  us,  very  pretty  in  a  long,  white  sweater  and 
a  gray  skirt  that  repeated  the  gray  of  her  eyes.  She 
claimed  perfect  health.  She  was  chatty  and  gay  and 
made  fun  of  my  shirt  which  I  had  bought  of  Sol 
Sneed,  who  carried  but  one  size,  the  largest,  to  ac 
commodate  his  entire  trade.  She  promised  to  cut  it 
over  and  make  the  collar  fit  if  I  would  stay  in  bed 
next  day. 

On  the  way  over  to  the  cookhouse  for  dinner  she 
slipped  her  arm  in  mine  in  a  happy,  confidential  man 
ner  that  was  very  engaging,  and  told  me  that  the 


Coyote  Butte  Ranch  323 

doctor  had  given  her  some  surgical  cases  that  had 
helped  her  raise  part  of  the  money  for  the  trip.  "  I 
couldn't  go,  otherwise/'  she  said.  "  Poor  Uncle 
John  is  about  strapped.  Oh,  but  I  am  so  much  bet 
ter,  Billy,  and  it  was  you  who  started  the  cure ;  you 
made  me  see  how  selfish  I  was  to  die  and  leave  him. 
Who  under  the  sun  would  unlace  his  shoes  ?  I  shud 
der  when  I  think  of  his  sleeping  in  them  the  rest  of 
his  life.  Why  did  you  stay  away  so  long,  Billy  ?  " 

"I've  been  ranching,"  I  said.  "You  should  see 
my  barley." 

She  gave  a  final  happy  little  squeeze  to  my  arm 
and  ran  up  the  cookhouse  steps  ahead  of  me.  It 
was  good  to  be  back. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  RAILROAD  AT  LAST 

MR.  REGAN'S  case  finally  came  up  for  trial 
and  was  dismissed.  When  the  district  at 
torney  got  down  to  it  he  was  so  incensed  over  the 
finding  that  he  kicked  the  special  agent  out  of  his 
office  —  not  very  dignified  proceedings  for  a  district 
attorney,  but  warranted.  He  wished  the  question 
settled  for  all  time  whether  he  was  to  be  a  tool  for 
special  agents  or  to  be  used  as  the  machinery  of  jus 
tice.  Life  was  pretty  unpleasant  for  those  back  of 
the  indictment. 

The  juniper  wood  had  been  taken  from  Jackass 
Mountain,  and  the  newspapers,  finally  getting  busy 
on  the  thing,  dubbed  it  "jackass  conservation." 
They  wrote  columns  on  Mr.  Regan's  usefulness  to  his 
state.  They  began  to  see  in  him  more  than  the  pic 
turesque  cattle  man  with  a  fund  of  inimitable  sto 
ries;  they  saw  the  man  large  and  his  design  large. 
John  Regan's  fight  was  for  his  state.  He  was  block 
ing  only  the  plans  of  the  powerful  O.  C.  Company, 
and  this  company  meant  nothing  to  the  state's  fu 
ture.  Its  power  was  wholly  local,  controlling  the 

324 


The  Railroad  at  Last 325 

small  handful  of  people  who  did  business  at  Two 
Forks. 

After  planning  the  campaign  with  me  in  Port 
land,  Mr.  Regan  returned  to  the  Q  Ranch.  He  had 
to  purchase  a  new  dredger  and  begin  all  over  again 
to  dig  the  canal  through  the  treacherous  swamps 
and  bottomless  bogs  of  the  Tule  Valley.  The  old 
dredger  was  useless.  It  must  be  got  out  of  the 
way,  a  crew  organized  and  work  started.  This 
would  mean  that  the  wood  choppers  would  go  again 
to  the  juniper  hills.  Our  old  man  would  not  be  able 
to  chop  wood  —  there  wasn't  much  relief  in  sight 
for  him  —  but  Ed  and  Jim  were  ready  to  run  the 
wood  chopping;  and  Susie  was  provided  for;  she 
would  not  be  trapping  coyotes  and  cats  this  winter 
at  any  rate.  I  tried  to  be  glad. 

I  was  steadily  busy  all  the  rest  of  the  spring  and 
summer.  The  bonds  were  not  popular.  No  one 
wanted  his  taxes  increased.  No  one  realized  the 
stored-up  wealth  of  the  great  inland  empire. 
"  Sagebrush  legislation,"  a  pompous  young  banker 
sneered.  "We've  no  time  for  petty  things  of  that 
sort.  What  we  want  is  an  open  waterway  to  the 
sea." 

"  For  what  purpose  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  For  shipping,"  he  retorted  in  a  tone  that  showed 
contempt  for  my  intelligence. 


326 Happy  Valley 

"What  shipping?" 

"Why,  everything,  of  course  —  lumber  —  stock 
—  wheat." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  an  open  waterway  to  a  locked 
granary?" 

"  Any  way,"  they  would  always  fall  back  on  this, 
"  our  taxes  are  too  high  as  it  is." 

It  was  an  uphill  pull.  They  were  stone  blind  to 
this  way  out  for  them.  I  found  all  the  coast  towns 
suffering  from  hard  times.  The  merchants  had 
over-bought,  and  the  people  were  not  spending 
money.  There  were  too  many  cities  for  the  amount 
of  producing  country.  The  more  I  traveled  through 
the  seaport  towns  the  more  I  realized  what  the  great 
interior  country  could  mean  to  them.  The  two 
sides  of  the  state  depended  absolutely  upon  each 
other.  There  were  splendid  natural  ports  with 
scarcely  any  commerce,  and  there  was  the  vast  inte 
rior  region  with  no  outlet.  The  thing  grew  in  my 
mind  until  the  blindness  of  the  people  became  un 
thinkable.  Everywhere  I  met  the  utmost  lethargy. 
Only  now  and  then  did  I  meet  a  man  who  could  see 
the  thing,  and  only  now  and  then  did  I  meet  a  man 
who  had  ever  penetrated  the  great  bottled-up  empire 
that  constituted  two-thirds  of  his  state.  One  rail 
road  had  purposely  kept  it  bottled  for  over  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  and  no  other  had  attemped  to  break  in. 


The  Railroad  at  Last 327 

This  attitude  of  the  railroads  minimized  in  the  peo 
ple's  mind  the  value  of  the  shut-in  territory. 

Mr.  Regan  was  with  me  at  times.  He  was  having 
all  kinds  of  trouble  with  his  new  dredger.  There 
were  few  workmen  in  the  country  able  to  handle  the 
thing,  and  he  had  had  to  get  outside  help.  The 
swamp  was  apparently  bottomless,  machinery  would 
break,  and  weeks  would  elapse  before  new  parts 
could  be  brought  in.  He  had  taken  off  his  own 
coat  and  gone  on  the  dredger  himself,  working  a 
month  to  get  the  thing  going.  And  all  the  time 
there  were  those  scattered  all  over  the  country  who 
stuck  out  their  chins  and  proclaimed  doggedly,  "  He 
can't  do  it!'*  It  had  never  been  done  before; 
everything  was  new  and  untried;  you  never  knew 
what  the  soil  would  do,  how  the  boggy  swamp  would 
act.  He  had  to  show  them  that  it  could  be  done, 
and  neither  had  he  a  precedent  to  go  by.  Ditch 
workers  living  away  from  their  families  became 
homesick.  There  was  no  place  to  go  after  they 
knocked  off  work;  just  the  desert,  the  endless  desert; 
they  were  easily  dissatisfied.  There  was  the  possi 
bility  constantly  to  be  avoided  of  men  throwing  up 
the  job  and  leaving  the  dredger  to  sink  into  the 
mire.  So  Mr.  Regan  had  to  be  almost  steadily  on 
the  job.  When  he  was  with  me  our  campaign  took 
on  giant  strides.  His  personality  won  the  people, 


328  Happy  Valley 


and  his  earnestness  got  the  thing  in  a  measure  under 
their  skin. 

Another  thing,  he  had  to  raise  money  to  go  on 
with  the  canal.  It  was  costing  ten  thousand  dollars 
a  mile  and  this  meant  a  weekly  payroll  of  ready  cash. 
He  raised  the  money  by  putting  a  mortgage  on  the 
Q  Ranch.  And  here  entered  his  personal  problem: 
Suppose  the  canal  were  successfully  completed,  the 
swamp  drained  and  the  arid  acres  irrigated.  With 
out  a  railroad  to  haul  out  crops  this  great  body  of 
reclaimed  land  would  continue  as  unproductive  of 
income  as  at  the  present  time.  Thousands  of  dol 
lars  would  be  locked  up  in  an  investment  that  could 
not  pay  interest.  And  all  the  time  the  canal  would 
have  to  be  kept  in  repair — a  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollar  project  for  the  convenience  of  wild 
cats  and  coyotes! 

A  railroad  had  to  come.  The  failure  to  unlock 
the  country  would  mean  failure  to  every  one  of  the 
homesteaders,  to  every  one  of  the  toiling,  hoping 
men  and  women  bent  on  making  a  home  in  the 
wilderness.  It  meant  failure  to  Mr.  Regan,  the 
wiping  out  of  a  lifetime's  work,  a  lifetime's  fight  for 
the  country's  settlement;  it  meant  the  triumph  of  the 
powerful  O.  C.  Company,  who  under  a  blind  kept 
speakers  in  the  field  fighting  the  bonds ;  and  I  could 
not  help  thinking  in  this  connection  of  one  of  their 


The  Railroad  at  Last  329 

small  tools,  the  little  red- faced,  burned-out  Bullpit; 
yes,  it  would  mean  his  triumph. 

I  had  no  idea  of  giving  up  the  fight.  It  would 
have  been  as  easy  to  let  a  ship  full  of  people  sink 
because  one  was  tired  of  shoveling  coal  below  decks. 
I  had  no  intention  of  giving  it  up;  but  more  and 
more  as  the  months  wore  on,  I  wondered  if  it  were 
not  useless.  The  people  were  not  ready  for  the 
bonds.  They  would  look  about  at  the  unfarmed 
patches  of  land  along  the  coast  and  say :  "  Let  the 
ranchers  come  over  here,  where  we  already  have  a 
railroad;  our  valleys  are  not  thickly  populated;  we 
can  use  more  ranchers.  Let  them  come  over  here." 
It  was  impossible  to  make  them  see  the  difference 
between  the  two  sides  of  the  state.  To  clear  an 
acre  on  the  coast  of  its  monster  fir  and  spruce  and 
cedar  would  take  more  out  of  a  man  than  to  clear 
one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  sagebrush.  One 
year's  good  work  on  a  ranch  in  the  interior  would 
make  it  a  producer;  one  year's  work  on  a  coast 
ranch  would  scarcely  reclaim  a  garden  patch. 

They  couldn't  see  it,  or  they  wouldn't;  the  fear  of 
an  increase  in  taxes  was  a  black  patch  ever  before 
their  eyes  that  shut  out  the  larger  view.  Mr.  Regan 
began  a  personal  campaign  among  the  commercial 
bodies  —  if  anyone  should  be  able  to  see  it  they 
should  —  but  each  of  these  bodies  was  representa- 


330  Happy  Valley 

tive  of  its  own  locality.  What  would  the  bonding 
act  do  for  their  county,  for  their  town?  These 
bonds  were  to  build  a  railroad  over  east  of  the  moun 
tains  and  their  interests  were  west  of  the  mountains. 
Old  Sol  Sneed's "  What's  in  it  for  me?"  came  back 
to  me  time  and  again.  He  was  of  a  numerous  com 
pany.  They  were  pinned  down  to  the  local  needs, 
getting  out  booklets  and  pamphlets  descriptive  of 
their  own  localities.  They  couldn't  endorse  a  plan 
to  increase  the  taxes  for  something  that  would  not 
pave  their  own  streets,  build  their  own  courthouses, 
erect  their  own  school  buildings.  They  could  not 
see  the  possible  millions  of  acres  in  wheat  and  what 
it  would  mean  to  the  state. 

Mr.  Regan's  patience  was  wonderful.  Always 
quiet,  calm,  ready  to  reason,  explain,  or  whip  men  in 
into  line,  he  never  once  lost  his  poise.  It  was  the 
patience  of  the  desert,  of  time,  of  eternity;  but  not 
the  patience  of  inertia.  He  was  busy  every  minute, 
though  never  seeming  hurried.  Five  hours  of  sleep 
was  doing  him  these  days.  He  had  no  time  for 
relaxation. 

One  night  he  joined  me  after  I  had  been  speaking 
before  a  suburban  boosters'  club.  He  drove  out 
himself  and  took  me  away.  We  went  into  the  coun 
try  and  for  a  long  time  he  said  nothing.  I  was  dis 
couraged.  The  people  had  listened  appreciatively, 


The  Railroad  at  Last  331 

but  when  the  question  was  thrown  open  for  discus 
sion  a  little  neighborhood  merchant  had  got  to  his 
feet  and  declaimed  in  Fourth  of  July  oratory  of  the 
neighborhood's  immediate  needs.  He  wanted  plans 
made  for  a  local  sweet-pea  show  and  prizes  decided 
upon.  He  turned  the  tide  against  the  bonds. 
He  was  a  merchant,  but  he  couldn't  see  the  local  gain 
in  greater  prosperity  for  his  whole  state.  He  was 
pinching  the  nickels  and  dimes  in  his  own  bailiwick, 
keeping  them  in  close  at  home  circulation.  He 
hadn't  the  understanding  to  realize  that  the  basis  of 
prosperity  must  be  in  the  soil. 

I  had  been  educated  by  experience  and  by  Mr. 
Regan.  I  admitted  my  greater  opportunities.  But 
this  did  not  make  it  any  easier  to  have  patience. 
Why  couldn't  they  see  it  ? 

We  drove  along  in  the  starlight.  The  quiet  of  the 
night  stole  over  me. 

"There's  nothing  so  good  as  the  night,"  Regan 
said  at  last.  "  The  night  when  no  one's  using  it." 

After  a  long  time  I  asked  him  questions  of  the 
people  at  home :  "  See  anything  of  Bullpit?  " 

"Oh,  he's  feeblin'  around  Ossing." 

His  indifference  in  someway  put  the  man  where 
I  had  not  been  able  to  put  him  with  all  my  herculean 
contempt. 

"How's  old  Cruikshank?"     All  winter  he  had 


332 Happy  Valley 

been  hiring  men  off  the  dredger,  principally  the  fore 
men. 

"He's  sick,  I  hear;  pretty  sick;  cancer  or  some 
thing."  Then  presently :  "  It's  just  been  the  cayuse 
in  Cruikshank;  he  couldn't  help  being  a  cayuse 
instead  of  a  thoroughbred." 

And  so  this  was  the  inglorious  end  of  Regan's 
lifetime  enemy!  But  I  was  not  permitted  to  dwell 
on  it.  He  chuckled  in  a  way  that  always  proclaimed 
a  story:  "Old  Sody,  Billy,  Old  Sody  — he  had  a 
right  clever  answer  for  the  railroad  men.  Ever 
hear  old  Sody's  answer?  You  see  Bullpit — he 
drove  us  down — took  Mill  out  to  the  corrals,  spot 
ting  things.  Mill  had  seen  the  Q  Ranch  orchard, 
but  he  was  skeptical  about  its  bearing.  So  he  says 
to  old  Sody:  'How  often  does  the  orchard  bear?' 
And  old  Sody,  he  cocks  his  head  to  one  side  and 
squints  up  his  watery  old  eyes,  and  scratches  his 
stubby  old  chin,  considering  like,  and  he  says,  at  last, 
real  judicial,  'I  ain't  never  known  it  to  beat  once  a 
year/  Mill  had  to  come  in  and  tell  me  about  it,  he 
thought  it  was  so  good." 

The  laugh  cleared  the  atmosphere. 

"You  speak  well,  Billy,"  he  went  on  presently, 
"you  speak  awful  well;  you  don't  use  any  of  those 
hand-picked  words.  I  wouldn't  wonder,  Billy,  when 
all  this  railroad  business  is  settled  but  what  you'd 


The  Railroad  at  Last 333 

go  into  politics.  I'd  like  to  see  you  there,  Billy,  in 
the  legislature,  and  some  day  back  at  Washington. 
You  speak  awful  well,  Billy  —  and  direct;  no  hand- 
picked  words." 

It  seemed  a  long  time  since  I  had  climbed  into  the 
car  down-hearted ;  and  yet  we  were  not  many  miles 
out  in  the  country,  and  hardly  an  hour  had  passed ; 
but  I  had  been  sitting  alongside  him,  alongside  the 
man  who  first  put  responsibility  on  me. 

I  should  not  leave  the  impression  that  it  was  all 
a  campaign  of  discouragement.  The  newspapers 
gave  us  respectful  consideration,  and  the  two  largest 
in  the  state  took  opposite  sides  and  carried  on  a 
fight  of  their  own  that  helped  so  far  as  publicity  was 
concerned.  But  votes  were  the  things  we  were  after 
and  so  many  were  in  the  habit  of  voting  "No" 
on  increased  taxation,  that  I  feared  they  would 
file  their  "  No  "  against  this  measure  when  it  came 
to  the  polls.  The  general  sentiment  was  not 
encouraging. 

One  night  in  January  Mr.  Regan  overtook  me  at 
a  commercial  club  banquet  in  the  southern  part  of 
the  state.  The  speaker  had  given  me  an  opportunity 
to  present  my  subject  and  the  men  had  listened  atten 
tively.  Afterward  there  had  been  some  clever 
stunts  and  good  fellowship  was  in  the  air.  The 


334  Happy  Valley 

banquet  was  in  honor  of  some  publiicty  men  from 
one  of  the  larger  cities. 

I  noticed  the  moment  he  entered  the  hall  —  and 
his  entrance  was  a  signal  for  an  uproar,  for  he  was 
universally  popular,  his  picturesque  face  and  figure 
being  known  from  one  end  of  the  state  to  the  other 
—  I  noticed  at  once  a  light  in  his  eyes  that  was  not 
merely  a  response  to  their  hilarious  greeting ;  it  was 
the  light  that  shines  from  good  news.  Men  sur 
rounded  him  and  he  was  escorted  to  the  speaker's 
table;  every  one  pounded  the  table  and  demanded 
a  speech.  With  the  light  burning  steadily  he  took 
the  floor  and  looked  about  the  square  of  faces : 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "I've  good  news  and  I  don't 
know  anyone  I'd  rather  share  it  with.  Mill  will  be 
building  into  the  inland  empire  the  first  of  next 
month." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
EVERYBODY'S  BACK 

is  the  thing  that  had  happened :  Mill,  see- 
JL  ing  the  prospect  of  municipal-owned  railroads 
in  Oregon,  had  been  working  secretly  for  months  to 
get  a  right  of  way  through  Roaring  Canyon.  One 
of  his  men,  disguised  as  a  sportsman,  had  fished  and 
hunted  up  and  down  the  length  of  the  Canyon,  grad 
ually  buying  up  ranches  and  old  rights-of-way  that 
had  been  secured  by  earlier  would-be  railroad  build 
ers  and  then  abandoned.  Regan  had  made  him  see 
the  country,  but  it  had  been  his  play  to  appear  dis 
interested.  With  the  announcement  in  the  news 
papers  of  the  coming  Mill  road,  came  a  similar  an 
nouncement  from  the  Merriman  people  that  they 
would  build  through  Roaring  Canyon  at  once. 
Instead  of  one  road  we  were  to  have  two. 

John  Regan  returned  to  his  dredger,  for  though 
the  canal  was  through  its  worst  experimental  stages 
it  still  needed  his  presence.  I  arranged  to  do  some 
special  work  at  the  state  agricultural  college ;  I  was 
determined  to  make  my  ranches  first-class  producers, 
and  I  had  a  great  deal  to  learn  about  both  irriga- 

335 


336  Happy  Valley 

tion  and  dry  farming.  The  study  proved  the  most 
interesting  I  had  ever  had ;  soils,  crops,  stock  testing 
—  it  was  all  live,  vital  information  dealing  directly 
with  the  problems  with  which  I  had  ignorantly 
struggled. 

A  series  of  short  courses  were  being  planned  for 
farmers  all  over  the  state;  this  was  the  result  of  a 
bill  on  which  John  Regan  had  worked  for  years. 
The  bill  had  passed  and  the  fund  was  now  available. 
A  lecturer  was  to  be  put  in  the  field.  The  president 
of  the  college  approached  me  one  day  about  this 
work.  He  said  he  thought  I  was  the  man  to  do  it. 
The  salary  was  not  large,  but  it  would  meet  my 
needs.  I  accepted  the  offer  for  the  following  winter. 

One  morning  in  May  a  thirst  came  over  me  —  a 
thirst  for  my  spring  —  and  a  yearning  for  the  silence 
of  the  great  desert.  I  had  engaged  the  Book-farmer 
to  put  in  my  crop,  I  was  not  needed,  but  I  was  home 
sick  for  my  ranch. 

And  so  in  the  course  of  a  few  days  I  found  myself 
riding  old  Sol  up  Wind  Mountain.  I  stopped  at  the 
top  and  gazed  across  Happy  Valley.  It  was  dotted 
with  green  patches  that  told  of  spring- wheat  on  a 
hundred  ranches.  Tenttown  had  almost  wholly  dis 
appeared,  replaced  by  a  considerable  group  of  stone 
houses  and  board  cabins.  Further  away  toward  the 
hills,  bright  new  white  spots  glistened  in  the  sun, 


Everybody's  Back 337 

the  tents  of  more  recent  homesteaders  who  had 
flocked  in  since  the  Mill  road  was  assured.  I 
spurred  up  old  Sol  and  rode  down  into  Happy  Val 
ley.  The  railroad  survey  had  followed  through  the 
center.  Our  old  man  had  been  right. 

Mother  Clark  had  her  house.  It  was  of  pale, 
salmon-pink  stone,  very  pretty  in  the  sage-green 
country.  Beside  it  stood  a  small  frame  building, 
the  post-office.  I  heard  a  piano,  and  before  I  could 
dismount  Mother  Clark  was  at  the  door.  She  was  a 
picture  of  contentment.  Her  eyes  shone.  She 
wore  a  blue  calico  dress  spotlessly  clean  and  ironed 
till  it  shone,  and  a  white  apron  edged  with  tatting. 
Mother  Clark's  spotlessness  in  a  tent  had  always 
amazed  me. 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  Billy!"  she  called.  She  hesi 
tated  a  second  and  I  hurried  up  the  steps.  She  put 
her  arms  about  my  neck  and  kissed  me.  We  went 
inside. 

"  And  a  piano,  too ! "  I  said,  gazing  about  at  the 
large,  attractive  room  with  its  open  fireplace  now 
filled  with  wild  flowers,  its  pictures  cut  from  the 
backs  of  magazines,  and  the  piano. 

"Yes  —  that  was  Susie's  doin's.  She  arranged 
with  the  dealer  as  soon  as  she  got  to  San  Francisco 
to  have  the  payments  extended  and  the  piano 
shipped." 


338  Happy  Valley 


"  Susie  —  in  San  Francisco  ?  " 

"  Hadn't  you  heard  ?  Susie's  been  away  at  school 
all  year."  Her  eyes  glowed  with  pride.  "Susie  — 
she  was  always  that  set  on  it,  so  her  pa  sold  his 
desert  claim  and  sent  her;  Susie's  our  last,"  she 
added,  half  apologetically.  Evidently  the  Clarks 
had  been  criticized  for  selling  their  desert  claim; 
but  it  told  me  another  thing  —  land  in  Happy  Valley 
was  getting  a  value. 

"And  how  is  Mr.  Clark?" 

"  He's  built  up  pretty  well.  He'll  be  that  sorry 
not  to  see  you.  He's  away  with  the  mail  —  takes 
him  and  Ed  both  now  with  a  double  team  apiece  — 
forty  thousand  pounds  a  week  —  parcel  post  done 
it." 

"  Forty  thousand  pounds  —  then  the  contract  is  a 
money  maker?" 

She  looked  a  little  crestfallen.  "It  ain't  that  — 
you  see  the  parcel  post  doubled  up  teams  and  time, 
but  the  pay's  just  the  same;  pa  loses  on  it,  but  he 
says  the  folks  has  got  to  have  their  parcel  post,  and 
it  won't  be  so  long  now  —  two  years  they  figure  and 
the  railroad  will  be  in." 

I  looked  at  Mother  Clark's  happy  mother  face, 
and  I  thought  of  these  two  who  had  made  it  possi 
ble  for  so  many  others  to  get  ahead  and  who  were 
still  unselfishly  helping  and  glad  to  do  it.  She 


Everybody  *s  Back 339 

was  at  last  "set  down  among  her  children,"  and 
she  had  a  house  and  a  piano,  and  our  old  man  was 
not  being  interfered  with  in  his  altruistic  designs, 
not  knowing  in  the  least  that  they  were  altruistic. 
She  went  on  to  tell  me  of  a  new  one  that  had  ar 
rived  in  Ed's  family.  "  Ed's  doin'  just  fine/'  she 
said,  proudly.  "  Got  four  wells  on  his  desert  claim, 
and  it's  all  in  wheat.  Couldn't  get  him  off  the  ranch 
now;  says  he  always  knew  a  ranch  was  what  he 
wanted.  And  Billy,  you  should  see  that  baby!" 
She  bustled  up  and  started  for  the  door.  Ed's  stone 
house  was  on  the  site  of  his  original  tent,  and  Jim's 
was  nearly  as  handy. 

"  Not  this  time,"  I  said.     "  I'll  see  him  later." 

I  rode  on  down  the  valley. 

Mother  Lattig  had  the  largest  house  of  them  all. 
The  lower  story  was  of  native  stone  in  contrasting 
layers  of  pink  and  white  and  the  upper  of  shingles. 
I  wondered  at  the  size  of  it,  but  as  I  came  nearer  I 
recognized  the  sign  I  had  made.  She  was  really 
an  innkeeper  now.  She  came  out  to  meet  "  the  trav 
eler,"  spick-and-span  in  a  green-checked  apron,  her 
sleeves  rolled  to  her  armpits,  fresh  from  the  flour 
bin. 

"Oh,  mine  gootness,  it's  Billy!"  she  screamed, 
pounding  down  the  steps,  shaking  them  with  her 
great  weight.  The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  and  she 


340  Happy  Valley 

laughed  and  cried  together,  then  pushed  me  off  for 
inspection. 

"  Too  white,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head.  "  You 
not  fed  good,  no  ?  You  need  soup,  yes  ?  You  come 
in  queek  and  I  feed  you.  Gootness,  how  I  feed  you, 
Billy ! "  I  was  glad  to  be  cried  over  and  shoved 
about.  The  large  living-room  was  bare  of  furni 
ture,  but  oh,  so  clean,  and  with  quaint  ornaments, 
stuffed  owls  and  birds,  on  the  corners  of  the  mantel, 
and  vivid  green  and  red  and  blue  mats  crochetted  of 
wool  under  lamps  and  vases.  The  house  looked  dis 
tinctly  Hungarian.  How  each  one  was  bringing 
her  household  gods  into  her  new  home  with  the  first 
flush  of  prosperity.  How  the  hearts  harked  back! 

Tom  was  away  across  the  valley  building  a  house 
for  a  new  homesteader,  but  she  was  not  alone; 
Leeda  was  staying  with  her.  Leeda  came  bash 
fully  from  the  dining-room  where  she  had  been  set 
ting  the  table.  It  seemed  that  automobile  parties 
stopped  almost  daily.  There  was  a  telephone  now, 
and  men  gave  their  orders  in  advance.  I  could 
readily  believe  that  one  would  drive  a  good  many 
miles  for  one  of  Mother  Lattig's  dinners  or  to  sleep 
in  one  of  her  clean,  soft  beds.  She  was  making 
money.  She  told  me  her  daughter  was  coming  on 
the  first  train  into  the  valley.  She  had  waited  a  long 
time  for  this  daughter. 


Everybody  's  Back  341 

Leeda  blushed  and  stumbled  against  a  bright-col 
ored  footstool  constructed  of  tomato  cans  and  cov 
ered  with  the  remains  of  an  old  shawl  —  I  had  seen 
Mother  Lattig  make  them  long  ago  —  and  then 
came  on  to  shake  hands.  Her  hand  was  red  and 
rough,  and  she  had  a  hard  muscular  grip,  but  her 
face  was  very  sweet  and  demure  in  a  shy,  German- 
housewifely  way.  She  said  her  father  was  very 
well  now  and  all  the  family  were  doing  well.  Her 
father  had  worked  on  the  dredger  all  winter,  but  was 
busy  now  with  his  crops.  He  had  a  thousand  acres 
in  wheat.  Leeda  was  evidently  working  for  Mother 
Lattig. 

In  the  face  of  fervent  and  voluble  and  repeated 
protestations,  I  rode  on  to  my  ranch.  The  last  thing 
I  heard  was  Mother  Lattig's  heated  denunciations  of 
my  poor  Tyke  for  not  following  me  home.  I  turned 
back  and  whistled  to  him,  but  Mother  Lattig  was 
still  belaboring  him  so  unmercifully  with  her  tongue 
that  the  poor  brute  was  at  sea  as  to  just  what  was 
his  move,  and  made  none. 

I  drank  from  my  spring,  then  opened  the  door  to 
my  lean-to  cabin.  It  was  clean  but  desolate.  The 
Book-farmer  had  bached  there.  My  wheat  field  did 
not  look  so  prosperous  as  did  those  of  the  other 
ranchers,  in  spite  of  abundant  water.  Had  the 
Book-farmer  been  unfaithful,  or  had  he  not  known 


342  Happy  Valley 

how  to  irrigate?  I  walked  over  the  ranch  and 
braced  up  the  rabbit  wire  in  places  where  it  needed 
repairing.  That  evening  I  went  back  to  Mother 
Lattig's  with  my  mind  made  up  to  improve  my 
ranch  at  once  and  bring  it  up  to  the  valley  standard. 
I  put  in  the  evening  re-winning  Tyke. 

As  Tom  would  be  away  indefinitely,  having  sev 
eral  houses  to  build,  I  rode  out  the  next  morning  to 
a  newer  homesteading  district  in  search  of  a  man  to 
help  me  cut  stone.  I  talked  with  several  new  set 
tlers;  they  haggled  over  terms.  This  was  different 
from  our  early  experiences  when  any  work  on  any 
terms  would  have  been  a  godsend.  Even  the  short 
time  which  had  elapsed  since  the  Clarks  and  myself 
had  come  into  the  country  had  made  a  difference; 
the  pioneers  of  this  year  knew  nothing  of  pioneer 
ing  as  we  had  known  it.  I  finally  found  a  man  who 
was  something  of  a  stonemason  and  was  reasonable 
in  his  charges. 

Together  we  built  the  lookout  tower  on  the  butte. 
We  added  a  wide  porch  across  the  front  and  made 
steps  up  from  the  spring,  cutting  them  in  the  soft 
sandstone.  There  was  a  great  stone  fireplace  and 
windows  on  all  sides  —  large  windows  which  framed 
pictures  the  equal  of  which  no  man  ever  painted. 
The  furniture  and  trappings  from  my  old  den  at 
home  —  shipped  long  ago  but  stored  in  Two  Forks 


Everybody's  Back  343 

—  added  the  quality  of  livableness.  My  books  filled 
one  wall,  and  my  reading  table,  lamp,  and  big  leather 
chair  were  all  there.  Scattered  over  the  floor  were 
coyote  and  wolf  skins  which  I  had  bought  from  our 
old  man  —  long  ago. 

The  place  suited  me.  I  did  not  mean  to  improve 
the  lean-to.  It  was  good  enough  to  eat  and  cook  in, 
and  it  answered  for  my  rancher  in  my  absence. 
The  Book- farmer  had  not  been  altogether  satisfac 
tory;  but  his  own  ranch  had  suffered,  too.  The 
Book-farmer,  I  learned,  had  had  a  shock  which 
interrupted  the  even  flow  of  his  rule  of  thumb  effi 
ciency.  The  pink-and-white  teacher,  after  com 
muting,  turned  him  down  and  went  back  to  college. 
A  vision  had  broken  through  his  previously  undis 
turbed  serenity,  impairing  his  usefulness.  I  was 
sorry  for  him  —  but  I  would  find  another  man. 

It  was  a  soft  June  evening.  I  went  up  to  my 
lookout  tower  after  dinner  at  Mother  Lattig's  for 
a  smoke,  Tyke  following  me,  now  wholly  devoted. 
I  drew  the  big  chair  before  the  open  door  and  flung 
myself  into  it.  A  golden  summer  haze  lingered 
over  the  wide  valley;  far  away  the  higher  moun 
tains  showed  heavy,  black  streaks  where  the  snow 
was  beginning  to  melt  on  their  rocky  ribs.  The 
green  patches  —  grain  fields  —  were  like  emeralds, 
sunset  colors  flamed  the  sky,  changing  from  crimson 


344  Happy  Valley 

to  lavender  and  gold.  I  smoked  and  dreamed  while 
Tyke  beat  his  stump  of  a  tail  on  the  floor,  demand 
ing  attention.  It  was  a  good  enough  life  for  any 
man,  I  told  myself  —  a  day  of  work,  an  evening  of 
dreams,  a  pipe  and  a  dog.  Yes,  it  was  enough  for 
any  man  —  it  was  enough. 

The  colors  faded;  the  stars  came  out;  my  pipe 
was  dead;  my  dog  snored  at  my  feet;  yes,  it  was 
enough,  it  was  enough,  I  told  myself  with  insistence. 
Listening,  I  could  hear  the  low  nestling  sound  of 
meadow  larks  settling  down  for  the  night.  Another 
sound  caught  my  ear  —  I  sat  up. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  stone  stairway  —  a  light, 
running  step  —  a  figure  brushed  past  the  windows  — 
it  stopped  in  the  doorway  —  it  was  Susie. 

"Billy!" 

It  was  a  new  little  Susie,  more  slender,  older,  but 
with  her  old-time  level  look  and  her  old-time  im- 
maculateness.  She  wore  a  white  linen  suit  and  a 
saucy  panama  hat  crowded  down  over  her  heavy 
flaxen  braids. 

"  Well,  well,  little  hired  girl,  and  so  you've  come 
back ! "  I  said,  greeting  her.  I  looked  about.  I  had 
but  the  one  chair  —  I  had  not  planned  for  callers. 
Susie  promptly  took  the  chair  and  I  took  the 
doorstep. 

"Everybody's  come  back,"  she  announced,  her 


Everybody  's  Back  345 

chin  in  the  air.  What  a  saucy  way  she  always  had 
had  with  her  chin.  Most  chins  are  just  —  chins; 
Susie's  was  a  distinct  feature.  Her  feet  were  very 
pretty  swinging  below  her  trim  white  skirt  as  she 
swayed  back  and  forth  in  the  big  leather  chair.  I 
had  always  liked  Susie's  feet;  and  she  was  still 
short  —  I  was  glad.  Susie's  height  had  been  one  of 
her  worries. 

"Everybody?"  I  repeated  casually. 

"The  pink-and-white  teacher  —  and  she's  made 
it  up  with  the  Book-farmer." 

"  Yes  ?    Then  my  crops  will  get  better  attention." 

"  And  Raz  —  from  the  cattle  drive  out  to  Ossing 

—  and  he's  to  marry  the  little  widow  and  the  leppy 
baby." 

"Good  —  we'll  have  another  neighbor." 
"And  Lizbeth  —  I  stopped  for  a  visit  at  the  Q 
Ranch  on  my  way  in  —  and  she's  brought  home  a 
young  doctor  —  or  rather  Dr.  Monk  did,  to  be  his 
partner,  because  there  are  too  many  for  one  doctor 
now;  and  —  and  Lizbeth  wants  to  see  you  very, 
very  soon ;  she  told  me  why ;  she  thinks,"  my  little 
hired  girl  dropped  her  eyes  and  began  to  finger  the 
fringe  on  the  chair  —  "  she  thinks  you  are  all  wrong 

—  about  it  being  best  never  to  marry  —  she  says 
when  the  will  is  built  up  very  strong  —  and  there 
are  two  —  to  keep  it  built  up  —  and  —  and  I'm  sure 


346  Happy  Valley 

she  loves  the  young  doctor,  even  though  he  has  got 
red  hair  and  wears  big  glasses  that  make  his  eyes 
look  bigger  and  dreamier  than  they  are;  I  peeked 
under  them  once,"  she  looked  away  confusedly. 

"  Good  Lizbeth,  I  shall  go  to  see  her." 

"  And  Bullpit  came  back,  too ;  but  the  waxy  man 
got  him;  some  difference  they  had  over  dividing 
locater's  fees.  They  said  in  Two  Forks  it  was  the 
most  unsuccessful  funeral  ever  held  there  —  nobody 
cried;  they  sent  the  waxy  man  to  the  pen." 

"Poor  old  Ratter!" 

"And  Tom  —  Tom's  back  —  "  she  fingered  the 
fringe  of  the  leather  chair.  I  deliberately  filled  my 
pipe,  but  neglected  to  strike  the  match  as  she  hesi 
tated;  and  she  continued  to  hesitate  —  while  I  con 
tinued  to  neglect  to  strike  the  match. 

"And  —  and  he's  to  marry  Leeda." 

I  looked  closely  at  my  little  hired  girl;  was  she 
joking?  She  was  furiously  braiding  the  fringe  of 
the  leather  chair  and  in  the  dusk  I  could  not  see 
plainly;  perhaps  that  was  why  I  could  not  get  the 
twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

I  went  deliberately  to  my  phonograph.  Ennis  had 
sent  it,  and  in  an  idle  evening  of  catalogue  shop 
ping  I  had  ordered  a  number  of  new  records.  I 
put  one  on  and  came  back  to  the  doorstep.  It  wasn't 
a  classical  selection ;  just  an  ordinary  thing  such  as 


Everybody's  Back  347 

you  hear  every  day.     But  at  the  first  words  Susie 
suddenly  ceased  rocking,  ceased  braiding  the  fringe. 

Some  one  to  love  and  cheer  you 
Sometimes  when  things  go  wrong; 

Some  one  to  snuggle  near  you, 
Some  one  to  share  your  song. 

Some  one  to  call  you  sweetheart, 
After  the  day  is  done — 

I  couldn't  make  out  even  when  the  song  got  that 
far  whether  or  not  the  twinkle  was  there,  for  her 
smooth  little  flaxen  head  was  buried  in  my  shirt 
front  and  refused  to  be  lifted.  My  pipe,  unlighted, 
lay  on  the  floor,  guarded  jealously  by  Tyke. 

Susie  and  I  are  building  a  larger  stone  house  down 
by  the  spring.  She  says  it  would  be  absurd  to  live 
on  top  of  the  butte  all  one's  life,  and  besides  a  man 
needs  a  place  all  his  own  to  go  away  and  cuss  in 
when  things  go  wrong.  Maybe,  maybe,  but  some 
way  I  can't  think  things  will  ever  go  wrong  again. 

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